


Sheep and Wolves

by fangirlanonymous



Category: Fallout (Video Games), Fallout 4
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Angst, Backstory, Bullying, Canon-Typical Violence, Drug Addiction, Drug Trips, Drug Use, Explicit Language, Explicit Sexual Content, Gen, Implied Sexual Content, M/M, Multi, Politics, Pre-Canon, Slow Build, Slow Burn, Smoking, descriptive drug use
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-05-09
Updated: 2017-02-28
Packaged: 2018-06-07 09:09:06
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 15
Words: 46,135
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6797863
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fangirlanonymous/pseuds/fangirlanonymous
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John McDonough is becoming increasingly disillusioned by the world around him, eventually finding refuge in a cocktail of sex and chems. When injustice finally catches up to him, he can no longer stand idly by and watch. </p><p>In other words: my take on Hancock’s backstory.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Childhood Revisited

_The measure of a man is what he does with power._ – Plato

~

**_2265_ **

The water glimmered under the low sun and lapped over withering feet. It was blissfully quiet. Noise scared the fish, his pa always said. It wasn’t easy catching the creatures, but every bite was the reward for patience. Most fish had gone extinct after the war. Those that survived looked nothing like the ones in the books. They were dull in colour with two heads and countless numbers of fins and fleshy growths. Nonetheless, when paired with an appetiser of Rad-X they made for a nutritious meal.

After hours of nothing there was at last a tug on the line. Little toes wiggled in excitement. “Pa! I’ve got one!” John exclaimed.

Patrick secured his fishing rod into a crack on the dock and scooted over to his son. “Hush boy, or you’ll lose it,” he warned.

The man waited with bated breath as his son reeled in the catch. It was a big one. When John dropped the fish to the wooden dock it flopped around pitifully before them, suffocating under the collapse of its numerous gills.

“I think you’ve got the biggest catch of the day!” Patrick congratulated as he picked up the scaly creature and pulled the makeshift lure from one of its mouths.

“Yes!” John fist pumped the air. “I can’t wait to show ma. And Guy is gonna be so jealous.”

“Now, now, John. That’s not the attitude.”

Patrick dropped the fish into the bucket with the other two. Its mouths opened and closed frantically and it squirmed desperately over the fleshy bodies of its brothers.

-

“If I hear you’ve been throwing tatos at Old Man Gibbard’s brahmin again, you’ll be grounded,” Patrick warned.

“I _told_ you. It was Adam’s idea.” The taller, rounder brother rolled his eyes.

John poked at the mashed gourd on his plate. The boy was just tall enough for his head to see over the table. He glanced across the table at Guy, who sat with a stern look across his face.

“I don’t care whose idea it was. First thing tomorrow you’re marching right over there to clean up and apologise.”

Guy groaned in protest. John sniggered at the reprimanding, earning him a dirty look from his brother.

“Knock it off, John,” Martha scolded quietly.

“Yes, ma.” When Martha looked away he poked his tongue out at Guy.

His older brother glanced at their parents to ensure neither was watching before flipping the bird in response. The boys continued to pull faces at each other until their father noticed the quiet commotion and called an end to it.

John broke away a piece of flesh from the day’s catch. The meat was tough. Not as tough as brahmin or radstag, but according to the books, fish from before the war was soft and succulent. Still, the reward was delicious. Even more so because it was bigger than any fish Guy had ever caught.

\--

**_2266_ **

“You’re such a little tato boy!” Guy teased.

“Tato booyyy!” His burly friend echoed, tightening the headlock.

John struggled to break free from Adam’s grasp. His hands clutched desperately at the larger boy’s arm; he could feel the pressure increasing over his jugular, transferring into his eyes and ears. Any tighter and he would surely pass out.

“Nghh!” Bare feet flashed into view. Dust spread as he kicked and squirmed.

“Fucking hold still you little mole rat,” Adam hissed as he wrestled to keep the smaller boy in position.

A hand grabbed at the collar of his sticky, wet shirt, letting a rush of cold air run down his back. The gust lasted only a moment when it was promptly replaced by something warm and soft. Guy and Adam laughed in unison at the younger brother’s unfortunate position. He struggled some more and felt the heavy blow of his brother’s hand strike his back. Warm sludge spread out across his skin. The smell of another rotten tato made his stomach turn.

“Stopp!” John choked out.

His eyes opened long enough to catch a glimpse of a blackened tato coming at him. The rotten pulp invaded his mouth and nostrils. Lips pursed, John struggled harder under the feeling of Guy’s hand smearing the putrid muck across his face.

Then, it stopped.

“Let him go,” Guy said. “I’m bored. He’s boring.”

Adam’s grip loosened. There was a rush of blood to the head. John stumbled to the ground, wiping the black and brown sludge from his face. Flecks of rotten tato sprayed from his nostrils as he coughed and spluttered. He could hear Adam laughing above him, but Guy remained in his sudden and silent boredom.

“C’mon, let’s get out of here,” Guy told Adam. “See you at home, tato boy.” He shoved at his brother’s head before leaving.

John remained on the ground wiping the chunks from his face and flicking more out from under his shirt. The stench of organic rot permeated his skin. Last time he had been ganged up on and smeared in rotten tatos it took three days for the smell to dissipate.

When he was satisfied that his body was free from most of the larger pieces, John got up and trudged the short way home. As the shack came into view, John scouted the surroundings for any sign of his mother. There was nobody to be seen. He made a dash towards the river, stripping off his soiled clothing and submerging himself in the cold water. Fingers scrubbed frantically through his shaggy blonde locks, rubbed at his face and shoulders in a desperate attempt to remove the stench.

“John?!” Behind him rang his mother’s voice. “John get out of the river. What is going on?!”

He turned around to find Martha holding up his spoilt shirt. Hand on hip she waited for her son with a stern look on her face.

\--

**_2267_ **

John picked at his nails. His heart raced in his chest as low level anxiety simmered in the pit of his gut. Inside the shack it was deathly quiet; a stark contrast to the gunfire and screaming that echoed beyond the trees. Guy’s shoulder brushed against his as the older brother twirled a combat knife between dexterous fingers. John watched the silhouette of the knife as it danced across his brother’s hand, the blade occasionally catching the moonlight peeking through the crack in the curtain.

“Are you _ever_ gonna to show me how to do that?” John asked in a hushed voice. The boy reached the sensitive skin under his thumb nail and moved on to picking at the next.

Guy stopped his trick and shifted himself to face John. “Hold it between your thumb and forefinger-”

“Hold on I can’t see,” John whined squinting through the dark.

His older brother let out a feigned sigh. “Here.” He shoved the handle into John’s hands. It felt warm and heavy in his little grasp. “Hold it-”

“Guy!” Martha interrupted with a hiss from across the room. “Don’t teach your brother to play with knives. And especially in the dark!”

“But I’m so bored. Why can’t I be out there with pa?”

In the dark John could make out the figure of their mother as she sat facing the door, double-barrelled shotgun poised across her lap. She remained silent, ready to defend against yet another raider attack. Outside the fighting continued. More gunshots. More screaming. A cackle of manic laughter. Some cussing and threats.

John felt the knife slide from his hand as Guy took his prized possession back. It would remain another trick for another day. Shadows danced over the walls as the quiet between them slipped by. He continued picking at his nails while Guy resumed his enviable knife tricks. The dull boom of a grenade erupted in the distance causing John to jump a little. The boy was met by the comforting arm of his older brother.

-

_The old woman, although her behaviour was so kind, was a wicked witch, who lay in wait for children, and had built the little house on purpose to entice them._

“John, dear, come inside please.”

Martha’s voice jolted his focus from the book. He sighed. The return to the real world brought with it the smell of burnt tato crops from the previous night’s assault. He tucked the scrappy bookmark between decaying pages and slammed the book shut. The fate of the story’s siblings would have to wait. John clambered off the shack steps and into the family home where his parents were waiting. He took a seat on the old couch beside his brother.

“Boys, your mother and I have been talking,” Patrick started. “We’ve made the decision to move to Diamond City.”

Martha fidgeted with the scrappy tea towel in her hands.

“Finally!” Guy fist pumped. “Somewhere good!”

“What?!” John exclaimed. “But I don’t want to move.”

Guy jabbed him with his elbow. “Nobody cares what you think, mole rat.”

“Now, now boys.” Patrick gestured for his sons to settle down. “We understand it’s a big change. But we’ve been considering this for a few weeks now. After last night we’ve decided it’s the best thing to do.”

“Tatos grow back!” John protested.

“It’s not about the crops, John,” his mother replied with a sigh. “We just want you boys to be safe. Your father and I will find work. You two will go to school. There are better opportunities for you both.”

“But I _like_ it here! Why can’t you just fight back?!”

Beside him, Guy groaned and rolled his eyes.

“It’s not as simple as that, John. You’ll understand when you’re older.” Martha continued to twist and fidget with the towel.

John’s heart sank.


	2. Easy Living

**_2270_ **

John’s fingers rummaged through the box of Sugar Bombs until he secured a fistful of the stale and overly-sweet cereal. Sinking deeper into his chair he kicked his feet over the seat in front, the sole of his boots disturbing the mottled peel of red rust and green paint from long before his time. Overhead loomed a decrepit billboard that he had to crane his neck back to get a better view of. A streamlined red car zoomed through the frame enclosed by the slogan _Life is a Race… Win!_ He chuckled to himself, a light _heh_. He’d seen a handful of the cars in the Commonwealth wastes. They were all but rusted shells forgotten in time.

The warmth of the sun sank deep into his body and elicited a yawn. Today was a welcome change from recent dreary storms; blue skies dotted with white, puffy clouds and a new clarity to the air that only came after rain. Even the billowing smoke from Diamond City’s generators could hardly taint the atmosphere. Alas, the moment of peaceful basking was brief. The adjoining stadium chairs shook and rocked under the movement of his friend. Liam, having gone to relieve himself, returned from the nearby rubble pile of concrete and steel. Liam dropped himself into the seat beside John, stretching his long legs out over the chair before him. John offered over the blue and white cereal box.

“Pretty sure I flunked that test,” Liam said, accepting the food and immediately rustling through the cereal.

“Pretty sure you didn’t study.” John dropped a few Sugar Bombs onto his tongue from his handful.

“Pretty sure I was with Emily.” His friend waggled his thick dark brows.

“Ugh. That Upper Stands snot?” John scrunched his nose. Liam had been ogling the girl for weeks and John suspected she only spoke to his friend out of a dare.

“You jealous?”

“Hardly.” A chunk of rust on the chair caught John’s eye and he knocked it off with a satisfying kick of his heel.

An incredulous _ha_ escaped Liam’s mouth. The friends sat in silence, savouring their Sugar Bombs and the balmy afternoon weather away from the activity of Diamond City’s hub. John closed his eyes. From the pens drifted the soft bellowing of brahmin, and even softer still came the faint voices of those tending to the settlement’s resources. He could just feel himself beginning to doze off when amongst the gentle background noise came a sudden clattering and splashing. His eyes snapped open. Liam buckled in laughter.

“Check out Kawolski.” Liam jabbed John with his bony elbow and pointed down at the water purifier.

At the heart of the irradiated pond below sat the Kawolski residence and water purifier. On the bridge cobbled together by wood and sheet metal lay a toppled trolley, with the purifier’s operator kneeling beside it frantically trying to fish for whatever items had fallen into the water. John didn’t find it quite as funny. He only chuckled to appease his friend.

Liam relaxed back into the chair, shovelling Sugar Bombs into his mouth and no longer concerned with the misfortune below now that he had his laugh. “Oh hey, did your brother get that job?”

A derisive snort. “Yep. Errand boy to the mayor.” John dropped a few more cereal pieces into his mouth, crunching down hard. Guy was a little too old to be an ‘errand boy,’ but the older brother fought tooth and nail to get his foot through any political door. “Thinks that by fetching the guy’s lunch he’s gonna _be_ the mayor one day.”

John stretched his arms over his head, shoulders tight from sitting in class. He remembered the day Guy set his eyes upon the dishevelled sign and the elevator that led to the office high in the stands; he’d found his calling. _That’s gonna be me one day, little brother…_

Liam chuckled. “Well he’s arrogant enough.”

John grunted in agreement, rolling the few Sugar Bombs he had left around in his palm. His attention returned to the Kawolskis below. Now a security guard had approached, face hidden under his helmet and swatter slung over his shoulder. The guard’s arrival reminded John that he couldn’t stick around for long. He downed the remaining Sugar Bombs he had been nursing and wiped his palms down over his faded trousers.

“Better get going. Ma’s having the neighbours over for dinner.”

“Sure thing.” Liam waved his hand. A cheeky look swept over his face and his brown eyes widened. “I’ll tell Emily you say hi.”

John rolled his eyes as he stood up. “See you in school, yeah?”

Liam responded with two sardonic thumbs up. With a nod goodbye, John leapt down over each seat and out of the derelict stands. On his way past the water, he heard the guard scolding him for loitering in the stands.

-

His nostrils were greeted by the gamey odour of radstag stew. For a moment he was taken back to the shack by the water. But the memory was fleeting. John had walked in on a hot topic of conversation: the upcoming ten year anniversary of the Commonwealth Provisional Government Massacre. He was too young to recall the incident, but the issue was still brought up frequently enough as the years passed by.

However, it wasn’t so much a conversation as it was ranting. Kevin Sandovel, Diamond City Security and neighbour, sat on the patched blue couch with a Gwinnett stout in hand blustering about the mysterious Institute and their synths. The man’s narrow face was tinged red from frustration and alcohol.

“They want to control us? Well I’ll give them something to control!” Kevin balled his fist, the other hand clutching on to his beer with equal force.

John withheld his laughter. Nothing got his neighbour more riled up than Institute conspiracies.

“Alright dear, calm down.” Kevin’s ghoul wife, Renee, stood sternly alongside Martha, arms crossed over a faded yellow dress. She had heard it a million times before.

“Yes, no point bringing down the mood,” Martha agreed. Even the smallest mention of the Institute was enough to instil fear and paranoia.

Kevin huffed, the grip of his hands relaxing. “If you’re not scared, then you should be.”

The ghoul housewife rolled her inky eyes, only noticeable by the movement of her facial muscles. She brushed a lock of thin blonde hair off her forehead and turned her attention to John’s brother. “Guy, how did you go with that job?”

John grimaced on the inside. The older brother was sitting on the ottoman engrossed by the neighbour’s diatribe and was eager about the opportunity to talk about himself. Fingers found a loose thread in his sleeve and he picked at it until the cotton unravelled. Sure, he was happy that his older brother was pursuing his goal, but he couldn’t help rolling his eyes every time somebody _ooh’d_ and _ahh’d_. It’s not like Guy had taken down a deathclaw with his bare hands; all he had done was jump onto the bottom rung of a very high, rickety ladder.

“And what do you want to be when you grow up?” Renee’s gravelly voice suddenly put the spotlight on him.

Most people just followed in their parent’s footsteps. Tato farmer? Vendor? He shrugged ambivalently. “Hadn’t thought that far ahead yet.”

A condescending _huh_ came from Renee’s mouth. “Well, there are lots of options for a bright young man such as yourself.”

“Aim high like your brother, kid,” Kevin said, tilting the beer in his direction before turning his attention to Patrick. “Imagine, Pat, both your boys in politics.”

John snorted at the idea, glancing at his brother. Guy’s stern face made it clear he was less than enthused about the concept.

“Pff. You don’t have what it takes. You’re way too soft.”

John’s eyes narrowed. “I’m not really into sitting on my ass bossing people around anyway.”

The comment incited a scowl.

-

“After everything the synths have done, Mayor Roberts gives this freak a home here?!”

Goosebumps prickled across John’s skin as a cold gust blew through the open air bar. He tucked his shoulders up higher to his ears. The repetitive sound of hammering rang down from the roof of Fallon’s Basement where a broken synth fiddled with neon signage. Charlie Fallon waited below by his mannequins, shotgun resting over his shoulder and patched scarf wound up to his ears.

“C’mon, Neil. The guy saved his daughter.”

“Bias like that don’t belong in politics,” the old barman scowled. “Mayor’s gotta put the safety of the people first.”

A few months had passed since the ten year anniversary of the CPG Massacre and the synth’s presence amplified Diamond City’s pain and fears. John picked at the scrappy label of his empty Nuka Cola bottle as he eavesdropped on the conversation. Beside him, Emily and Liam chatted quietly about a school assignment. Guy however, appeared even more captivated by the topic at the bar.

“Whatever you think.” The ghoul patron dropped a handful of caps on the counter. “I’ll see ya tomorrow.”

“Same time, same place,” the barman replied. Neil turned his steel blue eyes towards John and his friends at the end of the open air bar. “Now are you kids buyin’ anything else or you just gonna stare at those empty bottles?”

“Four more please.” Emily tucked her chestnut bob behind her ear. Much to John’s surprise the girl had stuck around with Liam in spite of her parent’s displeasure. She had actually turned out to be a rather lovely person, albeit sometimes a little sanctimonious.

The man muttered something inaudible under his breath as he grabbed four bottles of Nuka Cola from a crate. Pudgy hands cracked open the bottles, each one letting out a depressing _fss_. Of course the old man would keep those caps for himself. His fingers beckoned for payment before handing over the pre-war soft drinks.

Liam slung his arm around his girlfriend as she paid for the order. “Thanks babe.”

John swigged from the new bottle of warm, irradiated cola. The hammering stopped. Around them a group of caravan workers gathered to contemplate whether or not to order from the bar built below the enormous power generator.

“Hey,” Guy got Neil’s attention again. “Just wanna say I agree with what you said. About the mayor protecting the people.”

John rolled his eyes. Liam groaned in shared sentiment.

Neil grunted and looked the brother up and down. “Got a smart head on ya, kid.” Then he narrowed his eyes. “But don’t you be thinkin’ that’ll get you a free soda.”

The bartender turned and left, caps still clasped greedily in his hand. The crowd thinned, a few workers staying to order, the remainder disappearing presumably towards the warmth of the Dugout Inn. As Liam accused Guy of being a suck-up, John peered back at the synth out of curiosity and pity. Ragged wasteland clothing, half the artificial skin of his neck and jaw gone, that of his right hand was missing completely. Seemed pretty harmless…

“Tato boy.” Guy nudged him. “Stop staring at it.”

“It’s rude to stare, John,” Emily smirked as she wrapped her blue jacket tighter around her curvy frame.

“Shut up.” John smirked back and gave both of them the middle finger.

“Alright guys, can’t we just drink our sodas in peace?” Liam held his palms out, gesturing for the group to settle. “And maybe even get something to eat?”

John’s ears prickled at the mention of food and he quickly forgot about the synth on the roof. “Yeah I’m kinda hungry actually. And it’s cold as fuck.”

“Sounds great. I’ll buy.” Guy slapped his brother’s shoulder. The blow stung and resonated through his small frame. John could rarely tell if he hit him like that on purpose or if he just constantly underestimated his own strength.

\--

**_2271_ **

“And these do what exactly?” Emily furrowed her brow as she rolled the red tablet around in her palm.

“Make you smarter.” Liam was sitting cross-legged on his seat in the row below. The stands behind the Kawolski residence had become their regular haunt when the weather allowed. Diamond City Security occasionally kicked them off, depending on who was patrolling the area and their mood.

“Apparently,” Liam added with a careless shrug.

John leaned back into his hard metal seat, turning the corroded green and white tin around in his hands. His thumb ran over embossed red letters. _Med Tek Mentats_. Its contents rolled around inside clinking against the metal. Liam claimed the new teacher, Mr. Zwicky, had dropped them.

“You first.” John tilted his head to Liam, his brows lightly furrowing.

“Why me first?” He asked with a slight huff.

“You’re the one who wants the grades,” Emily replied matter-of-factly.

“Alright, fine.” Liam popped his red tablet. An audible crunch. The boy’s face contorted in disgust.

John tapped the Mentats tin against his palm. “That bad huh?”

“Ugh. It’s like eating chalk.”

They waited for any ill-effects of the chem to kick in. Satisfied that Liam was still alive and grimacing, Emily tipped her tablet into her mouth, crunching down and pulling a similar face. Now it was John’s turn. With his thumb, he clicked the lid open and shook out a red pill. He hesitated, staring at the little red tablet in his hand. His heart beat faster. _Bottoms up._ John tilted his head back and dropped it on his tongue, rolling the tablet around in his mouth before biting down. Tasteless, chalky powder coated his palate and his face scrunched in displeasure. The three of them remained silent for a few moments.

“Well this is underwhelming,” Emily muttered.

Relief slowly crept in. So far nothing bad was happening. Besides the taste of course.

“Yeah but you’re already smart,” Liam replied.

To her credit, John didn’t know what to expect either. The chalky sensation lingered in his mouth. But his mind was becoming clearer. Sharper. He felt more focused. Liam opened his bag and rifled through it until he found a notebook. He flung it at Emily, requesting she quiz him on his maths. John flicked his tongue around in his mouth trying to rub away the chalk. As Emily flipped through the notebook the group was interrupted by a stern and slightly irritated voice below.

“Hey! You lot!”

It was a security guard. With a quick fumble, John shoved the Mentats tin into his pants pocket. The guard waved his swatter in the air.

“How many times do I have to tell ya to get out of the damn stands?!”

“We were just leaving!” John called back. Beside him, Emily and Liam sniggered as they packed up their belongings.

“Get out before ya hurt yourselves, little jackasses.”


	3. Chems Or Not

**_2274_ **

One hand cradled the steaming bowl close to his chest, the other balanced chopsticks between fingers. John swirled clumps of noodles through thin broth. The spices tickled his nose and lingered across his lips. The surly old bartender that preceded Takahashi was missed by many, but for the youth of Diamond City, hot noodles and judgement-free Nuka Cola were a welcome change. _Nan-ni shimasho-ka?_ The modified protectron’s hallmark greeting rang through the air, only to be met by a confused _huh?_

Guy sat beside John, slurping from his noodle bowl. Even through the soft cherry glow of the late sun filtering through the red drapes, John could see his brother’s cheeks flushed from the spices, his round face set in a look of smugness. With his recent promotion to the Mayor’s personal assistant – or _glorified_ errand boy as John put it – it was now the older brother’s default expression. John sat patiently, swirling his noodles and watching pieces of mystery Commonwealth meat twirl through the broth as Guy spoke on and on about himself and Mayor Roberts.

Frustration was growing inside John. Even the simple act of eating noodles together gave him nothing but a sense of disappointment. Perhaps John was a little jealous; his older brother was excited and determined. Mayor Roberts had yet to lose an election and that only served to drive Guy’s dream.

As for John, well, he had no grand plans. He just wanted to enjoy his life.

At last Guy sounded like he was wrapping up. “After that I told the secretary to bring them back in so we could decline their proposal.”

He sounded so damn proud of himself.

“Mm.” John nodded, trying to grasp a piece of carrot between chopsticks.

“You weren’t even listening!” Guy accused, lowering his bowl to his lap.

John shrugged and glanced across at Takahashi. The robot’s arms waved up and down, claw hands spinning and grasping. _Fuck it._

“Kinda hard to hear over that big-ass ego o’ yours.” He caught the piece of carrot and dropped it into his mouth in quiet victory.

“Excuse me?”

The carrot was soft and sweet. He swallowed heavily and glanced at Guy. “You ever talk about anyone that isn’t you? Or the mayor? Nobody gives a shit.”

His brother scoffed and returned to swirling his noodles. “You’re just jealous. You’ve always been jealous.”

John narrowed his eyes, scanning Guy up and down from his hunching shoulders to crossed ankles. “Why you always gotta do that?” He turned his attention back to his own noodle bowl.

“Do what?” Guy asked in a flat voice.

“Get all defensive.” John glanced back at him.

Guy shifted his weight, visibly uncomfortable. He rubbed his eyebrow with the back of his hand, eyes low and focused on his noodles. He hated nothing more than being called out on his crappy attitude.

“I’m not getting defensive.”

John clenched his jaw. His appetite was diminishing and his noodles getting cold. “Whatever.”

He continued playing with the noodles and watching flecks of meat and vegetables spiral through the broth. For fifty-five caps he ought to finish his food. _Nan-ni shimasho-ka?_ Takahashi’s programmed greeting stood out amongst the background noise. Just as his chopsticks caught a stray noodle, a hefty weight crashed into him from behind. His torso fell forward and he nearly toppled off his stool, losing his noodle bowl in the process. Lukewarm broth spilt over his lap, the ceramic bowl shattering when it hit the ground.

“Hey asshole!” Guy shouted.

John, still shocked, heard the _clink_ as his brother set his bowl down, immediately followed by the scraping of his stool as the brother leapt to his feet. There was a moment of incoherent shouting.

“I don’t want any trouble!” The voice was deep and familiar.

John flicked the last of the stray noodles off his trousers. There was a flash of movement in his peripheral vision and he turned to catch a glimpse of his older brother shoving what appeared to be a very sick ghoul.

“Stay outta this, kid!” Came a gruff, angry voice. It belonged to another man likely involved in the altercation.

“Then why the fuck you here?” Guy argued back.

By now people were stopping to stare. John recognised the sick ghoul, except he was definitely no ghoul. It was the broken synth. Valencia? Valerio? He couldn’t remember the name. Not that it mattered now. He turned his attention to the attacker. The assailant had his eyes set on Guy, moving swiftly and shoving the older brother aside. Now it was John’s turn to leap off his chair. Guy might have been the pushy type, but John wasn’t about to sit around and watch while some angry stranger shoved him around.

John stood defensively in front of his brother. “Back the fuck off!” His hands began to tremble. Adrenaline flooded his veins.

“Leave the kids out of this, Parkinson,” the synth warned.

 _Nan-ni shimasho-ka?_ The protectron was oblivious to the quarrel. The crowd was growing, whispering incoherently and occasionally shouting out in support or opposition for either party.

“Hey freakshow, why don’t ya tell these kids how yer gonna break up their families, like ya did mine?” The stranger shouted.

The synth was leaning against the counter, his opponent awaiting a response with fists balled tight and red face glowering. John felt his brother brush past him, hand on his arm as he guided him back. Shielding him, in case the stranger or the synth lost their temper at the boys. Diamond City Security were sure taking their time.

“I’m beginning to see why your wife left.” The synth readjusted his patched blazer, voice calm and yellow optics focussed on his assailant.

“You take that back!”

The stranger lunged at the synth, latching on to his lapels and shaking him. Guy spread his arms out, further pushing John back. Somebody in the crowd screamed for security. John’s heart was racing and his palms sweating as he watched the stranger scream and shake the synth like a broken doll.

Then at last a familiar voice boomed from behind. “Alright, break it up!”

Kevin emerged through the crowd and pushed past the brothers. Two more guards followed, swatters on the ready. Even with their faces hidden behind masks, their eagerness to use their swatters was evident in the way they carried their shoulders and their bats. A handful of individuals in the crowd booed in disappointment.

“C’mon, let’s get the hell out of here,” Guy whispered.

Kevin worked on separating the angry man and the synth while his two cohorts focused on shooing away the crowd.

“What? We can’t just leave!” John hissed.

“You really want Mr. Sandovel telling ma we were here? She would freak!” Guy grabbed his arm and pulled him away.

As he allowed himself to be dragged away from the scuffle, John caught a final glimpse of Kevin still trying to keep the man and the synth separate. The man continued yelling in anger over whatever it was the synth had presumably done or found out about his family.

-

_A glooming peace this morning with it brings; the sun, for sorrow, will not show his head. Go hence, to have more talk of these sad things; some shall be pardon’d, and some punished. For never was a story of more woe than this of Juliet and her Romeo…_

The crowd erupted in ovation, the whistling piercing his ears. John felt very small amongst the rising audience and his view of the stage disappeared. Beside him, Emily sniffled and wiped her eyes in between claps before standing up. He followed suit, but even on his toes all he could catch sight of were the actor’s heads bobbing in and out of view as they took their bows. The applause rang on, the sharp pain in his ears increasing with each whistle. He made a mental note: no more Mentats where shrill sounds would be expected. As the applause settled, the clapping and whistling became hurriedly replaced by the bustle of footsteps as the audience dispersed. The wooden stage and the green wall beyond flashed in and out of view.

Emily grabbed John’s arm. “I need to find the ghoul who played Juliet, get her to sign my programme. Oh she was just amazing.” The girl clutched at her chest, cheeks beginning to fluster in her excitement and head bobbing and twisting as she looked out for her new hero ahead.

“Uhh sure. Whatever.” John rubbed his ear, the pain now subsiding.

“Oh! I see her!” She smacked his arm. “Wait here!”

John rolled his neck with a casual _uh-huh_ as his friend’s girlfriend darted away and disappeared. The Mentats were starting to wear off, leaving him with a feeling of mental exhaustion. He dropped back onto the bench and scuffed his heels in the dirt as he waited for Emily. Liam was supposed to be in his place right now, but had fallen sick. Nonetheless John was glad to have seen the travelling troupe’s sold-out performance, and he certainly appreciated the show more than Liam would have, Mentats or not.

“Enjoy the play, kid?” Behind him came the deep, noir voice belonging to the synth from the other night.

John looked up to see the synth looming over him. The lights gleamed off his head and flashed from his exposed metal jaw. He flicked a cigarette out from robotic phalanges. The majority of Diamond City had warmed to the synth’s presence, but his altercation from the other night had not done him any favours.

John shrugged and cleared his throat. “Yeah… would love to see Macbeth though.”

“Ahh,” the synth replied, a touch of astonishment in his voice. “Double, double toil and trouble. Fire burn, and cauldron bubble.”

John remained quiet, kicking deeper at the depression forming underfoot. The synth chuckled lightly and sat on the bench beside him. The smell of cigarettes lingered. Why would a synth want to smoke? Do they even have lungs?

“I’m sorry about the other night. You alright after all that?” The synth asked.

John stopped kicking at the dirt. “Well, ya kind of spilt my dinner.” He flashed him a broad grin. A moment of silence fell between them. Kevin had rather proudly mentioned keeping the synth jailed for two nights. “And what about you?”

“Nothing a little coolant and a few spare parts couldn’t fix.” The synth’s yellow optics appeared to brighten.

“What happened anyway?” John asked, removing his hands from his pockets and leaning back into the bench.

He shrugged. “I have a knack for finding things. That man thought his wife was dead… turns out she’d just run off with someone else.”

John scoffed. “So why get angry with you?”

“Sometimes people don’t like being confronted by the truth,” he replied matter-of-factly.

The synth seemed oddly calm about the situation, as if it were just another day in his life. Knowing what people like Kevin had to say about synths and the Institute, it probably was.

“John! John, I got it!” Emily’s excited squealing broke the moment, and John saw his friend running through the crowd towards them. She waved her programme proudly in the air.

“I’ll let you get back to your friend, kid.” The synth tipped his head and rose from the bench.

“Wait!” John exclaimed as Emily pulled up beside him. “I’m not even sure I know your name?”

A smile crossed his man-made features. “It’s Valentine, kid. Nick Valentine.”

John returned the smile. “John McDonough.” He gestured to Emily with his thumb. “And this is Emily Mathers.”

Nick, still smiling softly, nodded at them both before walking away, head low and hands disappearing into pockets.

John felt the light slap of Emily’s programme against his shoulder. “Why’d you tell it my name? Why were you talking to it? I heard he beat up a guy the other night.”

“Well ya heard wrong. And he’s not an ‘it’.” John stood up, brushing his friend aside. “C’mon, I’ll walk y’ home.”

\--

**_2275_ **

John waited in the old school bus sitting atop the school house. The old butterknife twirled over his thumb and with a flick of his forefinger he caught the handle. Guy rarely practiced his knife tricks these days, but he very occasionally took the time to teach them to John. He twirled it again and again until the knife dropped to the floor on the bus. After the stands behind the water purifier were barred from access after collapsing, John and his friends had moved their haunt to the rundown playground by the green wall. But not today. Today they were meeting in the bus which long ago had been cleared of its seats and no one could explain why it was on top of a building.

A crow cawed out of sight. _C’mon_ … He was growing impatient. He spun the butterknife on the floor of the bus and hummed _Atom Bomb Baby_. At last, footsteps broke his daydream. Emily appeared in the stairwell of the bus.

“I thought he’d be with you?” She asked, sounding annoyed.

“Nope.” John pocketed the knife.

She sighed and crossed the bus to sit near him against the wall. Emily was quiet for a moment before quietly confiding. “John I’m worried about him.”

He stretched his legs out in front of him, waiting for her to continue. She seemed so small, sitting against the wall, knees hugged to her chest and baggy clothing hiding her figure. Her hair was pulled up into a messy bun atop her head, stray hairs and fringe framing her pretty face.

“He takes Mentats like… all the time now,” she told him worriedly. “I don’t know if I’m talking to him or the stupid chem. And he gets so… grumpy if he’s not on them.”

Liam had indeed been taking the chalky red pills a lot. Probably more so than what John thought if Emily was this worried. But… John took them regularly too. He liked the sense of clarity and heightened senses that Mentats gave. Emily’s anxious blue eyes were fixed on him, waiting for a response.

“Have you spoken to him about it yet?” He asked, unsure of what else to say.

She rolled her eyes and shook her head. Right. Of course she had. She wasn’t somebody who held back.

“You’re his best friend. Can you try talking to him?” She asked, almost begging.

“Yeah.” He nodded. “Yeah, course I will.”

The clambering of multiple footsteps rang from outside, alerting their attention to the stairwell. Liam appeared with a well-dressed ghoul and a rough-looking man following close behind. The ghoul was immediately recognisable. Known only as Hamilton, he was Liam’s source for Mentats.

“Sorry I’m late guys!” Liam waved.

“Who the fuck is that?” Emily snapped, motioning to the stranger.

“This…” His hands, covered by long threadbare sleeves, gestured to the unknown man. “Is Anthony. Anthony hails from Goodneighbor. And he’s brought some goodies.” Liam slung his arms around the man.

John caught Anthony’s deep brown eyes. He appeared to be a few years older. Thick, jet black hair strewn messily in every direction. Unshaven and a little grimy. Narrow nose, crooked from an old injury. From one shoulder hung a small bag with two grenades attached to it. From the other slung a hunting rifle.

“Hey, brother,” Anthony greeted. “Sister.”

Anthony’s voice was gentle. Quite the opposite of his rough exterior. John felt a strange flutter in his chest. He smiled softly in greeting and suddenly forgot all about Emily’s concerns.


	4. When You're Gone

**_2276_ **

Martha placed a tray of Fancy Lads Snack Cakes in the middle of the table, her efforts earning her an appreciative _smack_ on the rear by Patrick. A light blush spread through her weathered cheeks and she brushed her husband’s hands away before disappearing back into the kitchen for tea. John scooped up one of the tiny green-frosted cakes. Guy’s hands immediately followed, snatching up one pink and one blue. The older brother smiled broadly as he bestowed the pink cake upon the woman sitting beside him as if it were a rare gem. His new girlfriend smiled sweetly, rolling her shoulders forward and stretching her arms out under the table. She quietly disclosed her preference for blue frosting.

John dropped his eyes as he tried not to snigger and tore a small piece of cake away, pushing the stale chunk around on the plate. The warm and earthy aroma of tea wafted through the air and a mug was set down beside him. Guy and Evette giggled together over something, and the girlfriend thanked Martha for the radstag stew served earlier. Patrick echoed the compliment with enthusiasm, tipping the remainder of his Gwinnett ale down his throat. John dropped the piece of cake into his mouth and gave a muffled _thanks ma_. Even after two centuries in a faded cardboard box the cake retained its flavours of zesty lime and smooth vanilla.

The mood was interrupted by a frantic knocking at the door. Martha queried who it could be and disappeared to answer. For a moment the room was quiet as the remaining family exchanged perplexed glances across the table. Then came Martha’s voice, calling for John. A quick swig of his tea and he rose from his chair. Passing each other in the dimly lit hall, John’s mother gave him a concerned look.

Liam waited in the doorway, shoulders slouched and arms crossed pitifully in front of his chest. Oversized clothes hung from his tall, narrow frame and his eyes were red and puffy. Under the low light his face appeared more gaunt than usual. Panic swept through John as he ushered his friend out onto the metal walkway, pulling the front door closed behind them.

He looked his friend up and down, confused. “Shit, what happened?”

Liam clutched at his hair in distress. “It’s Em, man… she’s breaking up with me.”

John’s stomach sank and a meek apology was all he could muster. While he genuinely felt bad, the news came as no surprise; Emily had finally grown tired of his addictions.

“I gave her everything y’know!” Liam continued, his body beginning to tremble. “We had a future…”

“Look…” John cleared his throat and buried his hands in the pockets of his trousers. His heart skipped as he realised he was lost for words.

“Give her time. Get yourself clean.” He grit his teeth.

Liam rubbed frantically at his arms, eyes darting back and forth. “I bet it was her parents y’know. They always hated me. Always. Fuck those guys.”

A Diamond City Security member strolled past, clearly eyeing the boys up and down. John returned the stare with a scowl. The guard adjusted his grip on his battered swatter, continuing on his path and glancing back at them.

“Gonna get her back. You’re gonna help me.” Liam drummed his fingers over his knuckles, nodding as whatever plan he had fell into place in his frazzled mind.

John was taken aback by the comment. What would that involve? In fact, what was Liam even on right now?

“Uh… let’s get you home and into bed first.” He cautiously placed a hand on his friend’s elbow.

Liam frowned and wiped his nose on his sleeve. “Yeah. Yeah I guess I’m a bit tired. Hey you got any ’tats? Still got that Jet? Could use somethin’ to take the edge off.”

Hand still on his elbow, John started guiding his friend back to his home. There were two loose Mentats in his pocket. Back under his mattress, an untouched Jet inhaler gifted to him by Anthony in the bus only a few months earlier.

“All out.”

“S’cool, cool.” Liam paused, swaying. “You’re a good friend, John.”

-

Each frantic knock against the cold, corroded metal door sent a sharp pain through his knuckles. John shook his hand out. Shifting his weight and clearing his throat, he glanced around the Upper Stands. Anne Codman scoffed in disapproval as she passed by, her spotless heels clacking against the walkway. His eyes rolled around in their sockets and in his peripheral vision he saw the woman point out his presence to the security guard.

_Click!_ The door opened and John was greeted by a well-dressed woman with dark hair swept up into perfect victory rolls. The woman peered down her nose at him.

“Hey Mrs. M, is--”

She turned her head away. “Emily dear…!”

With a glance back at John, the woman closed the door on him. _Ugh_. He shifted his feet and pretended he was unaware of the guard watching from a distance. After what felt like an embarrassing eternity, the door re-opened.

“Hey, John.” Emily smoothed out her yellow dress, avoiding eye contact. Her nose was raw and her blue eyes dull and drooping. Even her loosely braided hair appeared flat. John had never seen her so worn before.

“Hey, Em.” He rubbed the back of his neck knowing his question would only pain her further. “Look uhhh… you haven’t seen Liam have ya?”

The young woman snorted and blinked furiously as she clearly became overcome by emotions. Emily shifted her weight and began fidgeting with the end of her braid. The air grew thicker.

John swallowed hard, fingers absentmindedly fiddling with his shirt buttons. “I haven’t heard from him a few days...”

The muscles of Emily’s jaw twitched and she finally held his gaze. “He’s probably passed out somewhere again.” Her voice was bitter and she once again blinked back the creeping pain. She glanced down at her bare feet. “I guess…” She fell quiet for a moment and her brows furrowed in confusion. “Let me know if you find him.”

With that she turned away and closed the door.

-

The heart pierced by Cupid’s bow flickered. John squinted, the red neon sign paining his eyes.

“What do you think he wants with us?” Emily hissed, clutching at the collar of her plaid shirt. “The guy… robot… is creepy.” Her fingers waggled dramatically against her shirt.

“Oh just calm down would ya? Why you gotta be like your parents?” He spat, irate with her attitude.

John heard her scoff as he led her through the dim passage into the Valentine Detective Agency. With a roll of his eyes he pushed the heavy door open. They entered the agency to be greeted by the smell of cigarette smoke and the sight of an empty desk scattered with papers. A large picture of an animal resembling a radstag hung crookedly on the wall. Must have been pre-war. A fan sat atop a filing cabinet in the far corner, quietly whirring.

“Uhh… Hello?” John called out.

There was a scurry of footsteps above their heads.

“I’m here! I’m coming!”

John was relieved to hear the synth’s voice. The footsteps hurried from the second storey and down a staircase tucked away behind the entrance.  He glanced back at Emily; her eyes were wide and one brow rose with cynicism.

“Sorry, not quite sure if it’s too early to hire a secretary.” The synth appeared from a hall just beside the entrance. His yellow eyes lit up at the sight of the duo. “John, Emily.”

John noticed the synth no longer wore ragged wasteland attire or his old blazer. Instead a patched trench coat hung from his frame and a worn fedora sat atop his head. Now he looked like the detectives described in the books.

“New threads!” John complimented.

Valentine smiled modestly and pride flashed in his optics. He smoothed out a lapel with his metallic hand. “The clothes make the man. With the new Agency, I figured I better look the part.”

Valentine’s pride was contagious. John couldn’t help but smile.

The synth ushered the two over to his desk. Emily took a seat as Valentine dragged out his own chair from the other side, offering it to John before half sitting himself atop the desk. The detective crossed his arms loosely over his chest and raised his brow ridge.

“I just want to thank you both for stopping by,” the detective began.

John rubbed the back of his neck. A lump formed in his throat. Emily shifted in the chair beside him, fidgeting with the hem of her shirt.

“As you probably know, Liam’s parents contacted me.” He reached into his coat, removing a small notepad and a pencil. “I’d like to ask you both a few questions if that’s okay.”

His heart skipped. “What… do you think we did something?” John shot Emily an anxious glance, an expression that was promptly returned.

The detective shook his head, waved his hand. “Just standard procedure. Nothing to be worried about.”

-

John was at school when word spread of the body in the stadium. By the time he reached the security office a lump had formed in his throat and his chest was beginning to tighten. The sight of residents crowding around the front door amplified the feeling of dread. Of course there would be a crowd. For all of Diamond City’s fear and paranoia, they were a perverse bunch. He fought his way through the crowd. Everybody wanted to know something. Who was it? Was it deliberate? Was it a synth?

John reached the front of the crowd and stopped in his tracks. At the entrance to the security office stood three guards. Even through the identical uniforms, John would recognise Kevin from a mile away. Fearing retribution should he approach, John instead called for his neighbour. His voice was choked and drowned out by those around him, but the guard still noticed and rushed over.

With a hefty hand on John’s shoulder, Kevin guided him back out through the crowd making comments to the likenesses of _move it_ and _go home people_. John’s heart was ready to explode from his chest. His mouth was cotton. He asked what was going on but Kevin said nothing as he steered him in the direction of home.

When they reached the Sandovel residence, Kevin was quick to usher John inside. Renee was surprised to see her husband home so early, and even more surprised by John’s presence. However the ghoul was quickly shooed away and John was instructed to take a seat at the table in their small, colourful kitchen. John stared at the bright pink tablecloth under his hands, brows furrowing and mind racing as he tried to make sense of what was happening. He heard the open and closing of a cupboard door and the sharp _fzz_ of a bottle being opened. There was a second _fzz_. Outside of the kitchen he could hear Renee fiddling with the radio as she feigned being busy.

Kevin set a bottle of Nuka Cola down by John’s hand before dropping himself into the seat across from him. With a relieved grunt, the guard removed his mask and helmet, slamming them onto the table and wiping away the sweat from his thin hair. The man took a swig from his bottle of Gwinnett stout. John didn’t move from his position. He just watched his neighbour and waited.

“Nick Valentine found that friend o’ yours. The gangly one.”

John’s stomach dropped. The world began to spin and he had to brace himself. He lowered his eyes, frowning, staring at a small tear in the fabric of the tablecloth, heart now racing.

“Kid fell from quite the height,” the guard continued. “Sounds like the detective is gonna look into it further. In fact he’ll… probably want to talk to you again.”

Silence. John continued to stare at the torn fabric. This wasn’t happening. Radio static drifted in from the other room. His breath became shaky and nausea was beginning to overcome him.

“Look, I wouldn’t be telling you this if you weren’t my neighbour. Kid’s parents are still at the office.”

John squeezed his eyes shut, inhaling deeply, fighting back the tears.

Kevin cleared his throat. “I gotta ask you. We found a lotta chems on that boy...” he trailed off for a moment. “I gotta ask if you know anything about that.”

That boy? _That boy?_

“Liam,” John choked out in disbelief. “His name was Liam.”

He pushed himself up onto his feet, the chair scraping at the patchy floor underneath him. His mind was foggy. He felt weak, dizzy, sick. John couldn’t even look at the guard sitting across from him with his sweaty head and prominent cheekbones and ridiculous padded outfit. It was time to go. He didn’t know where. Anywhere but here. Hurrying out of the neighbour’s house he heard Renee’s gravelly voice as she scolded her husband for his insensitivity.

-

John lay in the UFO of the collapsing playground. Through the plastic dome he could see the Commonwealth sky and just glimpse Diamond City’s great green wall. Light sparkled off the rusted interior of the centuries-old play house. Every time he moved his eyes the world had to catch up to his vision. He took another hit of Jet, inhaling deeply and exhaling slowly, the aerosol bitter and sharp on his tongue.

It had been a month since Liam’s funeral. Nothing eased the pain. Nothing but the Jet, and even that simply left him feeling like a hollow shell, floating in a hazy sea of saturated colour and sparkles. A long time ago he read a book on space travel. Getting high in the playhouse made him feel like he was floating through space, through the stars and the vast unknown. Tucked in the corner by the wall and somewhat hidden by crops, the playground was a forgotten relic. Nobody in Diamond City cared for it; it simply fell into the background of daily life. Hiding in it, he too could disappear and just… float.

At least, that’s what John thought.

An abrupt banging on the outside of the UFO made him jump. Each bang echoed throughout the rusty relic and vibrated though his body. Two figures flashed past the circular windows. In his Jet haze the world was swaying. What the hell was going on? John managed to stuff the inhaler in his pocket and scrabble to his feet, each movement seemingly taking a lifetime to complete. Stumbling out through the entrance, the sun sparkling off of every conceivable surface, he was greeted by a familiar ghoul.

“Sorry kid, thought you were someone else,” the ghoul said.

John blinked, his vision slowly re-balancing.

“Whoaa. Kid’s nuked outta his head… Way t’ go.” Another voice. Not one he’d heard before.

John blinked again, an unfamiliar man with blonde hair moved in and out of his vision. But it was the ghoul he was interested in. He managed to get to standing, the ground appearing to sink further away from under his feet and inducing a sense of vertigo. Squinting at the ghoul, he managed to mumble out a _what are you doing here?_

Hamilton waved his scarred hand through the air. “Business.” His tone was dismissive. The ghoul paused, his dark eyes fixed upon John. “How you holding up, kid?”

Word certainly travelled fast in Diamond City, and now apparently Goodneighbor. John rubbed the back of his neck and sat back onto the bowed stairs leading in to the play house. He replied with a half-hearted _fine_ , watching the flecks of light dance over his scuffed boots. The ghoul fidgeted in John’s peripheral vision. A short distance away the unknown blonde contemplated his hands, the rusted jungle gym, the sky.

A cigarette appeared before John’s face. In the light of day its little ember glowed brightly, and the smoke tickled his nostrils. He waved it away. For a moment he contemplated leaving, but he couldn't go home. Not like this, not in the middle of a Jet high. Fortunately for him the impromptu meeting was interrupted by the arrival of another.

Anthony.

Hamilton greeted the dealer with the rejected cigarette and a tone in his voice hinting at a sense of relief. Whether the ghoul was relieved that he was there to lighten the atmosphere or deal with his even higher friend, John would never know. But it didn't matter. Because in the soft haze of Jet and the sparkles and the vivid array of colours, John could quite happily stare at the man all day. His hair had grown in the months since they met and it sat low at his nape in a short ponytail. It looked good on him. John waggled his fingers in awkward greeting. The blonde man, whose name or reason for being remained unknown, also greeted him, his voice a drone that carried on for longer than necessary.

“Brother.” Anthony appeared to remember him, his hands reaching out. A bandage covered his right knuckles, stained with old strikethrough. John felt a rush through his chest upon hearing his soft, deep greeting.

“I heard about Liam and you have my sincerest condolences.”

John’s stomach dropped and his heart fluttered with an odd blend of mild panic, the pain of his grief, and a strange giddiness over Anthony’s sympathy. All John could do was contort his lips and nod his head. Anthony moved in closer. His movement appeared quick given the perceived slowing of time from the Jet. Perhaps it was starting to wear off. He placed his hand on John’s shoulder, giving it a gentle squeeze.

“Now… Ham and myself have a meeting with our good friend Solomon here.” His gaze became a little intense, as if he were deliberating on how to handle the situation. “We ain't gonna kick you out of here, so we’ll say goodbye.”

The man gave his shoulder another squeeze.

“If there is _anything_ you need please feel free to ask for it.” Anthony reached into his pocket with his free hand and revealed a Jet inhaler. He held it out on offer. “On the house.”

John accepted the inhaler. As Anthony turned to leave, with Hamilton and the man named Solomon following suit, John rose from the stairs. He didn’t know how to get in touch with a chem dealer from Goodneighbor. Even Hamilton, who John was fairly certain actually lived in Diamond City, kept an extremely low profile to the point that it were almost as if he didn’t exist.

“I… don’t even know how to find you.” The words practically fell out of his mouth.

He toyed with the gift in his hand. Time was returning to a more normal pace now and the world’s colours were growing bland.

“Don’t worry, brother… I think we’ll be here often enough.” A sly grin crossed Anthony’s face and he momentarily held John’s gaze before waving goodbye.

John watched them leave, curiosity piquing. Something about Anthony and Hamilton intrigued him so. They weren’t like other people he’d met. They didn’t quite fit the Diamond City mould. When they were out of sight and the playground and crops were no longer sparkling, grief began to rear its ugly head once more. His belly simmered. He swapped out the new Jet for the one in his pocket, giving the old one a shake and taking a deep huff. The harsh mist spread over his tongue and throat… and ran dry. He inhaled again. Nothing. He shook the little red vessel and tried a third time. Empty. So he sighed and crawled back into the rusty playhouse where he collapsed onto his back. Through the old dome the sky above shimmered and warped into a brilliant azure blue.


	5. Aftermath

**_2276_ **

The butterknife slipped out from between John’s fingers and tumbled to the ground. With a frustrated groan he booted the old piece of silverware as hard as he could down the alley. He rubbed his brow. It seemed like every time he thought he had the trick perfected, it would be lost once more. He paced in front of the door, squinting at the garish neon sign advertising the Valentine Detective Agency. In the midday sun it should have been less of an eyesore, but in the shadows of the narrow backstreet it was just as bright and flashy as ever.

 _Mentats_.

John found the tin in his pocket. Not a lot left; he’d been rationing them lately, saving each and every bitter red tablet for the more mentally strenuous occasions. Right now, his racing mind and restless body were beginning to qualify. Shaking out a tablet from the faded tin, he popped it, rolled it about with his tongue and crunched. He had become used to the unpleasant flavour and the chalky residue that it left along his palate. It was almost welcoming to his senses.

His thoughts began to slow and he was beginning to think more clearly. Ideally a hit of Jet would ease his restless body, but he wasn’t prepared to explain to the detective why he was high. John would just have to settle for mental acuity for now. He would reward himself afterwards, depending on the outcome of the meeting.

As he went to retrieve the knife, he heard the heavy door to the detective’s office bang open. Out of the corridor appeared Emily, the synth detective following closely behind. Valentine gestured John inside, as Emily took to leaning against the outer wall and advising that she would wait. John followed the synth into the confines of his office, taking a seat in the chair at the desk.

“I appreciate you meeting with me again,” Valentine began, sitting himself down on the other side of the desk. “I’m just making sure I have final stories before I close Liam’s case. Apologies if some of the questions are repetitive.”

John nodded in understanding, eyes sweeping across the array of notes and folders scattered over the desk. An ashtray filled with old stubs sat near the detective’s metallic right hand. From what he’d heard, Diamond City Security were ready to close the case the moment Liam’s body was found. Liam’s parents were not prepared to give up on their son so easily.

“Is there anything you’d like to tell me first?” Valentine queried, yellow optics fixed upon him.

John pressed his lips together, frowning. “What do you want to know?”

The detective flipped a few pages back in his notebook, mouth twisting slightly in thought. “Why don’t you start by telling me about your relationship with Emily?”

He was puzzled. “Why? What’d she say about me?”

Valentine let out a soft chuckle. “Nothing inappropriate, if that’s what you’re worried about.”

“Well, we’re just friends if that’s what you’re asking.”

The synth tilted his wrists, momentarily bringing his palms up. “I’m just trying to cover all bases. You’d be surprised at what folks get up to behind closed doors.”

John’s eyes widened and his brows knotted lightly in disgust. “She’s… not my type.”

Valentine nodded and wrote in his notebook. “Tell me about the chems, John.” He briefly raised his eyes from his notes.

“He took them. I think everybody knows that now.” John sank back, the old chair squeaking under his weight.

Flipping further back through the scrappy notebook, Valentine paused to re-read his notes. “First time I spoke to you, you both declined using them. Is that still true?”

John rubbed the back of his neck, eyes low to the scuffed floor. Chems weren’t illegal in Diamond City, but they were certainly associated with the likes of Goodneighbor, raiders, and whatever other horrors awaited anyone who dared venture beyond the green wall.

“Everything you say is confidential,” Valentine reassured. Then he tilted his head. “Unless you’ve broken the law.”

Emily had probably saved face and denied it.

“What does it matter?” John asked.

“Well…” the detective tapped his pencil against his notebook. “Sometimes people get caught up in things bigger than themselves.”

John’s mind crossed immediately to Hamilton and Anthony. “What are you trying to say?” He pinched at the fabric of his trousers. “You think he was caught up in something sketchy?”

With another chuckle, Valentine set his pencil down and closed his notebook. “No, kid. Like I said… just trying to cover all bases.”

John straightened up in his chair. “So what do you think happened then?”

The synth almost appeared to sigh, his dilapidated face rife with consideration. John felt his stomach sink as he prepared himself to be told about confidentiality and the case not being officially closed.

Pushing his notebook aside and interlocking his fingers on the desk, Valentine answered. “I think it was an accident. I’ve found no evidence to suggest otherwise.”

Sinking back into the chair, John didn’t know what to do with the closure.

-

“Hold on.” Emily stopped John in his tracks, just outside the chapel on the way down from the stands. “I wanna give you something.” Her hands disappeared into the pockets of her trenchcoat and she glanced around before revealing four boxes of Gum Drops. She held them out on offer.

Raising his brow, John hesitantly accepted the sweets.

“I don’t… want them anymore,” she told him.

John immediately clued into what he’d just been given: Mentats hidden in black and white confectionary boxes. He tucked them into his own trouser pockets and followed Emily as she got to walking again.

“I need to get myself together,” she continued, dodging a spray of blood as they passed the open-air butcher. “And God help me if my parents find them.”

“Well… it’s not like you needed them anyway,” John muttered, keeping pace beside her as they ambled in the direction of the water purifier. “So, what are you gonna do when you’re done with school anyway?”

She snorted derisively. “Take over for my parents I guess.”

Her tone bordered on disappointment. John twisted his lips, eyes scanning over the sheet metal housings lining their path and the dusty caravan workers smoking cigarettes. Emily’s family traded in pre-war jewellery and precious stones, with mark-ups that only Diamond City elite could afford. Sure, those lucky few living in the Upper Stands viewed the remainder of the city’s populace with disdain, but why would they even want to leave their cushy lives? They had the best the city could offer and the caps to protect their lifestyle.

“You wanna do something else?” John asked, shooting her a confused glance. The sun was sinking, casting his friend in a soft orange glow.

Emily kept her eyes on the path ahead, her features growing solemn. “I’d kinda like to teach.”

“Really?” John was surprised by her comment. “So why don’t you?”

She scoffed, running her fingers through her loose dark hair. “C’mon. You know Zwicky has the monopoly on education.”

“Stuff him. Just start your own school.”

“Ha! Where am I gonna go? Bunker Hill? There’s nothing out there for me.”

They reached the open-air camp reserved for traders and lucky drifters. Fire barrels crackled and pack brahmin bellowed. Emily picked up her pace as they weaved through a group of travellers.

“You never told me you wanted to be a teacher,” John said, bumping shoulders with a woman who shot him a scornful look.

Emily glanced back with a shrug and a slight curl in her lip. “You never asked.”

A pang of guilt; he had only tolerated her because of Liam. But now Liam was gone. Their mutual friend was their only link to each other, something John anticipated would quickly dissolve. He was wrong. It was almost as if they were left with nothing more than each other. An odd friendship, if it counted as one.

“Anyway.” Emily paused in her steps, John almost bumping into her. Ahead a small group of fellow students were gathered by a lone fire barrel, splashing liquid over the flames and heckling at the momentary uproar of fire. “Shall we join the rest of Diamond City’s hapless youth?”

They locked eyes and shared a grin before heading over to join their classmates. They were greeted with whiskey siphoned into Nuka Cola bottles; a poor attempt to avoid harassment by Diamond City security. John tried not to gag on the cold burn of the alcohol and sat down with Emily by the water.

The sky darkened as the evening wore on. John had a warm buzz and the sight of Emily’s red nose and flushed cheeks told him she had the same sensation. The group was becoming rowdy, having already incited the ire of the Kawolskis for keeping their toddler awake. As Daniel, a tall and athletic young man with a dark crew cut, returned from convincing security that they would settle, the conversation took a turn.

“How about a little something to relax us all?” Andrew, Daniel’s shorter but equally muscular best friend who sported the same uptight haircut, revealed a small red canister from his pocket.

John felt Emily shift her weight beside him. A girl whose name he could never remember asked where Andrew got the Jet from. Mr. Zwicky’s desk, apparently.

“Careful, or you’ll end up like Liam,” sniggered another girl, Audrey, from the other side of the fire.

John immediately felt the air shift.

“That’s not funny, Audrey,” the unknown girl warned.

“Whatever happened to Liam anyway?” Andrew flipped the inhaler in his hand and paced around the fire barrel.

“He OD’d.” A third girl, Jennifer, rose from her position into view. The light of the flames danced over her features, illuminating her red hair in a blazing halo. For an extended moment she locked eyes with John before shifting her steely gaze onto Emily.

“The hell?” Emily murmured. “That’s not true.”

“Alright guys, that’s enough.” Daniel held his palms out, his request falling on deaf ears.

“I heard he jumped,” a boy piped up from behind the barrel.

“Chem lords. I heard chem lords,” somebody else said confidently.

Emily stood up in haste. “He fell. It was an accident.”

“Yeah, you would say that. I bet he OD’d because of you,” sneered Jennifer.

John scrabbled to his feet, adrenaline beginning to trickle through his veins. 

“Seriously guys, we’re gonna get security on our asses again,” Daniel warned through clenched teeth.

Andrew sighed loudly. “All I wanted to do was some Jet.” His comment was met with a remark encouraging him to just pass the inhaler around anyway.

“What do you care, Jen?” Emily snapped. Then, her voice faltered. “Maybe if you were in my position you wouldn’t be such a goddamned bitch.”

Jennifer huffed, shifted her shoulders, looked around. “Fucking rich kids.”

John could see Emily’s eyes turning glassy. He grabbed her arm. “It was an accident,” he reiterated to the group before leading her away.

As they distanced themselves from their peers, he could hear their offhand remarks.

_Thanks for ruining the night, Jen._

_I can see chem lords. Yeah. Yeah I can see that._

_It’s not like he was the smartest…_

When their voices faded into the distance, John pulled Emily into a hug. His adrenaline dissolved, leaving his stomach at his feet. They stood in the darkness and Emily cried into his shoulder.

-

_CHEM-I-CARE: COMING SOON FOR ALL YOUR CHEMICAL NEEDS_

A poorly-drawn picture of Mentats followed the barely legible scrawl. The new poster stood out in the sea of advertisements vying for the attention of the public. _Silver Shroud_. _Missing person._ _Looking for work_. _Reward._ _Help wanted_. The storefront had been closed for a few months after the vendor disappeared. Now the repossessed store acted as little more than a billboard and a shelter for drifters.

“Can’t believe they’re letting a junkie move in next door,” came a familiar, overly-confident voice. “I mean, what? Real medicine ain’t good enough?”

John was caught off guard; he didn’t think he’d been staring at the posters for that long. Doc Crocker waved goodbye to a patient clad in a large floppy hat and oversized sunglasses. As the eccentric surgeon approached he wiped his hand over his discoloured lab coat, leaving behind a smear of blood.

“Can’t be that bad can it?” John kept his eyes off the other man, shifted his feet below him and brushed the hair from his face. His eyes scanned over a _Lost Dog_ poster before settling on the image of a tiny oil lantern etched in the wood.

Doc Crocker made an _eh_ sound that could only accompany a shrug. “I suppose like Sun said, we’ll probably get more business, what with all the regretful addicts. But really, a chem store in Diamond City? People want that kind of riffraff, they can move to Goodneighbor.”

“Mmhmm.” John buried his hands in his pockets. The Silver Shroud stood confidently in his poster, bullet casings sprayed across his shoulder as he fired at an unknown assailant. He realised he didn’t really care for the surgeon’s opinion. But he stood there anyway, nodding in feigned agreement.

Fortunately for John the encounter was abruptly ended when a middle-aged man in a suit and sunglasses arrived to greet Doc Crocker. He took his cue to exit, slipping through the light crowd and following the movement across to Power Noodles. At the counter sat Guy, engrossed by the steaming bowl in front of him.

_Nan-ni shimasho-ka?_

The only word the protectron understood was yes. So with a _yes_ , John pulled up a seat beside his brother.

“Hey. How you doin’, little brother?” Guy greeted.

“Eh. Can’t complain too much I guess.”

As John groped around his pockets, Guy waved his hand in dismissal and slid a small pile of caps across to the modified protectron. Looking up at his brother, he noticed for the first time the grey strands flecked throughout his dark hair. His face was clean shaven, bar an emerging moustache.

“Sheesh. What’s with the dirty mo’?” John snickered.

Guy brought his fingertips up to the growth on his upper lip. “It’s all in the image, John,” he replied with confidence. “Besides, we can’t both be baby-faced.” He smiled cockily.

John brushed the backs of his fingers over the wisps of fine hair on his chin. A noodle bowl was set down in front of him. He couldn’t think of a good come-back, so instead raised his middle finger before swivelling in his chair to face his food.

“So I’m planning to move out of home.” Guy tilted his head back and lowered a large clump of noodles into his mouth.

“Finally!” John exclaimed, swirling mismatched chopsticks through his food. “You can be the adult you always wanted to be.” The corners of his lips rose in a broad grin and he ceremoniously dropped an unidentifiable vegetable piece into his mouth.

“Yeah, yeah,” Guy replied modestly, poking at his noodles. “I’ve been saving for ages, and now waiting to hear back about a place. But, uhh, don’t tell ma yet would ya? Not sure she’s ready for us to start leaving the nest.”

“Evette moving in with you?”

Guy half-shrugged, studying what was possibly a piece of tato. “Little early. Maybe.” His eyes lit up, and he bounced lightly in his chair. “Hopefully one day.”

“Well, I _guess_ I’ll miss you…”

“No you won’t.”

“Okay. Not really.” John dropped his head in feigned shame. “Can I have your stuff?”

Guy snorted and lightly slapped John’s arm. “Hell no.”

-

_This, said Squealer, was something called tactics. He repeated a number of times, ‘Tactics, comrades, tactics!’ skipping round and whisking his tail with a merry laugh. The animals were not certain what the word meant, but Squealer spoke so persuasively, and the three dogs who happened to be with him growled so threateningly, that they accepted his explanation without further questions._

John could feel his eyelids growing heavy. _One more chapter_ he told himself, a promise he’d made before starting the last chapter, and the one before that. Dusk was setting in, the sky outside turning a vivid array of purples and pinks. Shadows crept into the playhouse, but enough light remained to make out the pre-war text. He sighed, closing the book and studying what was left of the scrappy cover. Like everything else, it was peeled and faded; it was a wonder the pages inside were legible.

The silence was broken by a familiar voice and the sudden sight of Anthony crawling into the rusty playhouse.

“Hope I’m not interrupting.” Anthony’s teeth flashed under a devilish smile.

John straightened up. “Uh… no. I was just, uhh… I like… books.”

 _Idiot_.

Anthony snorted and laughed, moving further into the playhouse and settling in across from John.

“What are you reading?” He reached over and grabbed the book from John’s hands, turning it over as he read the faded title. “ _Animal Farm_ ,” he mused before passing it back. He flashed that devilish grin again. “All animals are equal, but some animals are more equal than others.”

John felt his heart skip and the corner of his mouth twitched. “Hope you didn’t just give away the ending…” He set the book down beside him.

Anthony grinned slyly as he searched through the pockets of his dusty, olive trenchcoat for something.

“What are you doing here anyway?” John continued, relaxing back into the wall of the playhouse with a raised brow.

Finding cigarettes and now presumably searching for his lighter, Anthony responded. “Like I said, brother: I’m in town a bit more often now.”

“I mean _here_ , in the playground.”

The other man found his lighter, and plucking a cigarette from its carton, proceeded to light it. “Same reason you are,” he replied with a casual, lop-sided shrug.

Isolation and silence, then. Just like John. Anthony held out the cigarettes in offer. He stared at the old Grey Tortoise box in Anthony’s weathered hands. The light outside was fading fast now, the shadows around them darkening.

“I’ve never tried one…” John admitted, scratching the tip of his nose, eyes still set on the little cream and yellow carton.

“Oh.” He sounded almost surprised, thick brows rising. “You can try mine if you like.”

Anthony took a deep drag of the cigarette before passing it over. Holding it delicately between his thumb and forefinger and feeling completely unsure about what he was doing, John brought it to his lips and inhaled. The smoke was harsh, burning his tongue and throat and tickling his lungs. He agagged, coughing and spluttering. Through it he could hear Anthony’s laughter. When his throat settled and the coughs became small puffs to alleviate the itch in his throat, John raised his eyes to the man sitting across from him. Even through the low light he could see the look of amusement on Anthony’s face.

“First time’s always a hard one.” Anthony reached over, taking back the cigarette and having a quick puff. “You okay?” His tone was more sympathetic now.

John coughed a few more times, the taste in his mouth bitter and burning and not like anything he’d ever had before. A feeling of warmth and calmness was beginning to spread within. He nodded, spluttering out a _yep_.

“I hear they used to be better before the war. Not so stale.” He took another long drag before holding it out to the side and tapping away the ash column. “Here.” Anthony offered it a second time. “Try again. This time don’t breathe it straight into your lungs, just… hold it in your mouth first.”

“So you like watching me cough up my lungs?” John chuckled as he took back the cigarette.

Smiling, Anthony scrunched his crooked nose. “It’s a bit cute.”

There is was again. The rush in his belly. John dropped his head, cheeks burning and lips twitching as he tried not to laugh or smile too harshly. He could feel Anthony watching as he raised the cigarette for a second time. This time he followed the instructions, sucking the burning smoke into his mouth and waiting for it to cool. Slowly he inhaled, and on the exhale his head felt lighter and a sense of euphoria settled in. He coughed lightly, raising his head, passing back the cigarette, feeling warmer.

“Better?” Anthony asked.

John nodded slowly. He opened his mouth to speak, but a sudden bustle outside of the UFO garnered their attention. Solomon stumbled into the playhouse.

“There you are, man. Been lookin’ all over.” Solomon swayed lightly and shifted the already-crooked red cap on his head. “Man… I’m stuck on this thing. You gotta help me out.”

Annoyance flashed briefly over Anthony’s face. Then, he simply smiled and looked at John.

“Sorry brother, gotta take care of business.”

John pointed, waving his finger back and forth between the two men. “Chem-I-Care?” He asked hesitantly, one eye narrowing.

“Perceptive.” Anthony sounded pleasantly surprised. He rose to leave, passing back the cigarette. “We’ll catch up properly, yeah?”

John nodded and Anthony smiled, a soft smile that made his stomach flutter and heart pound.


	6. Beyond The Green Wall

**_2277_ **

_Every chem for every need! Increase your productivity with Mentats. Perfect for the office._

Solomon’s drawl could be heard faintly outside as he advertised his wares. John lay on the dealer’s patched couch, _Grognak_ comic in hand. On the floor lay Anthony, stoned off a mixture of chems, eyes closed and head swaying to a song only he could hear. The small living area around them was mostly empty bar the necessities: couch, coffee table, fridge, bedroll, suitcase.

It was another lazy, contented afternoon. John had caught up with Anthony intermittently over the months. They’d get high on Jet and just hang out, talking about books or history or nothing at all. He was different from Liam; in his mid-twenties, born in the Capital, and considering himself somewhat entrepreneurial thanks to Chem-I-Care, Anthony was a wealth of interesting stories and ideals. The more John spent time with the rugged, smooth-talking man from Goodneighbor, the further his attraction developed.

As John thumbed through the comic, pages yellowed and torn, Anthony’s spoke up.

“Have you ever been outside of Diamond City?”

John clicked his tongue, slightly taken back by the sudden question. Dropping the comic to his lap, his mind crossed back over the years. He recalled the shack by the water. Of fishing with his pa, of the grumpy old neighbour with his malnourished brahmin. But the memories were fading. He remembered the names of other children: Joey, Geoffrey, Lana, Mary, that asshole Adam. Like his old home, their faces were vanishing with time.

John shifted uncomfortably. “Not since I got here…”

“Not surprised. You Diamond City types are pretty cosy.”

He wrinkled his face in offence, fingers pinching at the weathered paper. Glancing down, Anthony was contemplating his Jet inhaler, hair spread out under his head in a halo of dark tendrils.

“Well… y’know… it’s pretty safe here,” John replied tentatively.

Anthony shifted his arm up to rest under his head, free hand cupping the inhaler lightly over his chest. He turned his head to face John, dark brown eyes staring with intent.

“And what makes it safe?”

John rolled onto his side, the couch springs squeaking under his weight. He wondered if he were being tested.

“I dunno.” John shrugged and propped up his arm, resting his chin in his hand. “We got a pretty good wall.”

Anthony snorted, rolling his head back to stare up at the ceiling. “I don’t get why you lot are so hard about your wall.” In a moment of silence, the man drummed his fingers over his chest. His brow furrowed ever-so-lightly in thought. “Walls aren’t just designed to keep folks out y’know…”

John rolled his eyes. “If you’re going to get all philosophical on me, at least pass the Mentats.”

The other man smiled. “That’s why I like you, John McDonough. You’re sheltered. But I think you want more than what Diamond City can offer.” Anthony rolled onto his side to look at John, waggling the inhaler with a flick of his wrist. “Come with me to Goodneighbor.”

“And get shot?!” John’s eyes widened, forehead creasing.

“I’ll look after you,” Anthony replied, eyes twinkling. “Come with me once. If you hate it, you never have to go back.”

-

_Wait a second, Miles, are you trying to tell me that some kid from a vault blew up a town?_

_That’s exactly what I’m trying to tell you, Road. Fresh from the Capital itself._

_Innnn-credible. Boy I sure hope none of those guys from Vault 81know how to set off a nuke!_

_Haha. Tell me about it. What will they think of next? Coming up, a song for all you Wanderers out there in the Commonwealth. Stay safe, and try not to blow anything up, would you? This is Miles and Long Road of Diamond City Radio, bringing you news that’s hotter than Megaton._

_Too soon, Miles. Too soon._

With _The Wanderer_ streaming through the radio, John bobbed his head to the beat, flicking through a copy of _Unstoppables_. Across the path, Pastor Clements called out a blessing over the faint, repetitive chopping of the butcher’s knife. Mindlessly stretching his legs out in front of him, John accidentally kicked a box of books. With a pained grimace, he shifted position in the chair and returned to his reading. The vendor space was small, crammed with containers and miscellaneous items. Occasionally a chem or weapon came through, but mostly his parents sold food, books, clothing, and pre-war junk. Working at the stall was not particularly exciting; on occasion he contemplated joining the Security team. Such dreams were quickly snuffed when he would catch sight of guards standing out under the sun scratching their asses in boredom, or realising he’d have to listen to the likes of Kevin all day.

At least here he could read, and with a constant stream of people passing through, he was often visited by friends. And if neither parent were nearby, he could huff some Jet to make things more interesting.

“Does ma know you’re slacking off?”

John jumped in his seat slightly, slamming the comic shut. “Oh, it’s just you.”

Guy dropped a hefty box on the counter, an audible sigh of relief escaping his mouth. “Ma here?”

John shook his head, flipping back through the comic to find his page.

“Well I stopped by to give you something.” Guy rifled through the papers and books in his box, producing a small, rectangular container. “Thought I’d better get you something for your eighteenth.”

Guy slid the faded brown package over the counter. Eying it suspiciously, John was hesitant to accept. In the past, his brother had gifted him with a variety of undesirable items, from empty boxes of Sugar Bombs to a mole rat paw.

“Now what could this be?” John asked cynically, lightly rolling his eyes.

Lazily, he reached over and took the gift from the counter. Tucking the comic between his thighs, he braced himself for the gift to top them all. He lifted the lid, slowly, expecting a foul smell to waft or something to crawl out. Instead, there was a flash of sunlight on a clip point blade. John was flummoxed. The combat knife looked almost untouched by time; even the black leather wrap of the grip remained unblemished.

“Now you can stop losing ma’s silverware,” Guy told him.

John was still waiting for the catch. He was also beginning to suspect their mother may have played a role in this. Not in the choice of present of course, but in demanding her youngest son not be gifted with eighteen rotten tatos.

“How and why…?” he asked, puzzled.

The question was met with a heedless shrug. “I have contacts. And I guess you’re an adult now.” Guy slapped the large box in front of him. “Anyway. Duty calls. Try not to work too hard.”

Grunting lightly, Guy lifted the unwieldy box and ambled away without another word. John watched as his older brother bumped into another man, momentarily yelling at him before heading up the stairs towards the mayor’s office. Looking back at the pristine knife in its scrappy box, he remained confused by his brother’s intentions.

_You’ve got to accentuate the positive, eliminate the negative. Latch on to the affirmative. Don’t mess with Mister In-Between._

With Crosby’s aptly-fitting croon now streaming from the radio, John lifted the knife, balancing it in his hand, getting a feel for its weight and the soft, cool leather in his palm. Excitement surged through his veins. He pointed it at the splintered wall of the vendor wall, biting his tongue and twisting the blade through the air.

“Hey, McDonough.”

A gravelly voice interrupted his reverie. John jolted in his seat, the comic slipping through his thighs to the dusty floor as he scrambled to repack his gift. A ghoul in a black suit and fedora waited patiently for his attention.

“Gimme a box of Sugar Bombs,” Hamilton said, adjusting his hat.

John nodded, reaching under the counter for a carton of cereal and passing it over. Hamilton slid a pile of caps across in exchange.

The ghoul nodded at John. “Take it easy, kid,” he said before leaving.

John frowned, watching the ghoul leave. As he scooped up the pile of caps he noticed a flimsy piece of paper tucked amongst them. Unfolding it revealed unfamiliar handwriting.

_Main stairwell 0700 tomorrow?_

-

Blood pounded through his ears. He sucked in air, exhaling slowly to soothe his nerves. Once again he reached to his hip. Through his plaid shirt his fingers ran over the thick handle of the knife tucked into its sheath. Once again he checked his pockets. Jet. Four Mentats. Two cigarettes and a flip lighter. A few caps. Loose Rad-X tablets. And once again, he checked his hair, tucked back in a low ponytail.

“I won’t lie, I’m really happy you showed up.”

Anthony approached John at the entrance to the stairwell leading down to the lobby at the city wall. A frayed satchel hung from his shoulder, unknown contents bulging at the sides. From his other shoulder slung his hunting rifle. Wayfarer sunglasses rested atop his head, his thick dark hair loosely framing his face. John was immediately self-conscious of his lack of preparation. Not that he had much to be prepared with.

John snickered. “Well, Hamilton made such a convincing argument…”

“Ham can be very persuasive,” Anthony responded with a cunning look on his face. After a brief pause, he spoke again. “So, what are you packing anyway?” He glanced down at John, obviously scanning for any sign of a concealed firearm. “Pistol? Revolver?”

John cleared his throat, rubbed the back of his neck. “A knife.”

“Nice. Nothing wrong with a blade. They’re fun. They’re… intimate. But you really need to have a gun on you.” There was something stern in his otherwise-friendly voice, as if John should have known better.

Anthony fumbled through the contents of his bag and revealed a battered 10mm pistol. “Here.” He handed it over.

It was heavy, the metal cold, and the overused grip rough. Turning it around in his hands, his fingertips brushed over the trigger guard. Merely holding the pistol elicited a brief but thrilling rush.

“You know how to shoot, right?” Anthony asked as he began to lead the way down the stairwell.

Glancing up from the weapon, John followed, their footsteps echoing. “Um… I shot a radstag once.”

“Well I guess now’s as good a time as any to learn…”

They reached the bottom step. Anthony bounced off it lightly and led the way through the pre-war lobby where a handful of guards loitered. The enormous mechanical gate had already been raised in anticipation of the day’s caravans. Stepping beyond the gates and into the Fens, John was struck by the peculiar silence. Turrets chugged softly from their vantage points. Guns fired in the far distance. But there was no bustle. No stallholders. No radio. No brahmin. The Boston ruins were a ghost town.

A short distance ahead stood an oxidised copper statue of a man wielding a swatter. John made a bee-line for it. Upon first arrival to Diamond City, the statue loomed over him. Yet at only 5’4” and still craning his neck to see, it now appeared less impressive.

“Damn. Seemed so much taller when I arrived here,” he remarked.

Anthony stood beside him, looking up at the statue. “The great American pastime,” he pronounced before chuckling. “Imagine if they saw us now, beating each other to death with those bats.” He gestured to keep moving.

Following once more, John tried to recall Moe Cronin’s description of baseball. “That’s not what they did?” He asked sheepishly. They passed a guard slung lazily in a chair with a cigarette and what appeared to be an issue of _Picket Fences_.

His question was met with a hearty laugh, Anthony’s head dropping back and his Adam’s apple bouncing merrily. “Brother, you have much to learn.”

Shifting the weight of the bag on his shoulder, Anthony continued walking. John kept pace alongside as he was guided past an old junkyard and the fresh bodies of rabid hounds. Their eyes were glassy and pupils blown, faces still wrinkled from a lifetime of vicious snarling. It began to dawn on him how disconnected the inhabitants of Diamond City were from the outside world.

The distant gunfire ended and the dilapidated city fell into an unnerving silence. Having reached an open crossroad, Anthony stopped, glancing around. John fidgeted with the gun in his hands, now warm from his grip.

“Alright. Yeah,” Anthony mused to himself, nodding. He came around to stand behind John. “We’re gonna aim for that sign.”

John followed his gaze to the left. Down the street stood a rundown _Stop_ sign. He felt Anthony’s arms swooping around either side and moving down, hands coming to rest on John’s wrists. He directed John’s arms up and guided his right hand into position around the grip.

“Hold high on the grip.”

John could feel Anthony’s breath sweep over his temple.

“Hold firmly with this hand, all fingers under the trigger.”

He guided John’s left hand into position. John felt him chuckling.

“ _Relax_ , brother. Drop your knees a little. Use the sight to aim.”

John complied, squinting down the sights at the _Stop_ sign; the irony was not lost on him. Anthony was pressed into John’s back, hair tickling his ear, calloused hands lightly cupping his own. John’s heart was racing, his body hot. He found himself struggling to focus; the red and rust sign blurred in and out.

“Now squeeze that trigger.”

He squeezed, hard. The recoil jerked his wrists back and the bullet missed the target completely. Anthony’s hands slid off Johns, gliding up his arms to rest on his shoulders.

“Think of the gun as an extension of your arm. Try again.”

John repositioned his feet, trying hard to focus on the sign and not on Anthony’s fingertips running along his clavicles. He fired again. Missed. A third time. Missed. Fourth time. The bullet surged through the metal sheet, leaving a small hole in its wake. He lowered the weapon, excitement rushing, embarrassment flustering, and arousal stirring. Anthony pulled away. The rush of air against John’s back was cold. Surely he hadn’t been sweating that much.

He raised the pistol again. Firing, the bullet struck the edge of the signpost. The last shot must have been a lucky one. John lowered his arms, mouth twisting in disappointment. Still, his frustration did not dampen the adrenalin.

“Just keep practicing.” Anthony slapped his shoulder, giving his torso a gentle shake. “But for now… stick close to me. And do exactly what I tell you.”

 _And this is how I die._ John puffed his cheeks, briefly wondering if he should have stayed home. _No… just… see where this goes…_

He offered the gun back to Anthony. It was waved away.

“Keep it. Think of it as a birthday present.”

John was perplexed, blue eyes following Anthony’s movement as he resumed leading the way. “Um. How do you know my birthday?” He fell into step.

“Do you remember Liam giving you Berry Mentats for a birthday?” Anthony asked, flicking his sunglasses down over his eyes. He appeared awfully nonchalant about his _lesson_ and confusion reared its ugly head in the pit of John’s over-stimulated belly.

“Yeah?” John remembered the Berry Mentats. They had been gifted with a partially-burnt copy of _Finnegan’s Wake_ , which he had quickly given up on reading.

“Where do you think he sourced them?” Anthony pointed proudly at himself, attention still set on the broken road ahead. “I heard you loved them, by the way. Play your cards right, and you may get some more.”

Rubbing his forehead with the back of the hand that clasped the still-hot weapon and belly still knotted, John followed Anthony deeper into the ruins.


	7. The Bystander

**_2277_ **

Commonwealth Avenue comprised of a two-lane road separated by an overgrown median strip and bordered by buildings in varying states of collapse and disrepair. Numerous crows circled overhead, landing to perch in the dead trees whose roots ran deep, keeping them standing after all the years. Anthony, having travelled the road many times, strode through the open street with confidence, whistling a tune John had never heard. John followed alongside; pistol to his chest, head and shoulders lightly slouched as if that would protect him from snipers.

Anthony stopped whistling and slowed his pace. “Don’t be alarmed, but just so you know, we’re about to hit a Raider camp.”

“What?” John squeaked, heart jumping to his throat.

“Don’t worry. I give them chems and they let me pass through their shithole territory unharmed,” Anthony assured. “They have the apartments, the bar, and a garage around the corner. Striking this deal was the only way I can get through without being shot at.”

John was gobsmacked, and sure enough, the trademark décor of a Raider camp came into view ahead. From the pre-war _Shenley’s Oyster Bar_ sign hung a decapitated body, suspended by the ankles. The dismal sight was enhanced by the pitiful flickering of the neon signage. As they approached, gunfire erupted from the nondescript apartment complex across from the diner. John and Anthony both scurried back a few steps and the shots ceased.

“The hell-?!” John cried. “I thought you said you didn’t get shot at!”

“Okay, so maybe most of the time…” Anthony raised his arms above his head, and resumed his approach. “It’s me!” he yelled.

“Eat a bullet!” somebody called from the apartments. His comment was immediately followed by two bullets aimed at Anthony’s feet, each shot scattering dirt and causing the man to jump backwards and simultaneously aim his rifle in the direction of the hidden assailant.

“Show yourself, you fuck!” Anthony yelled back.

The situation was defused when the red door leading into the oyster bar opened and a tall, well-built Raider descended the stone stairwell. John wasn’t sure if he should be relieved or even more afraid, but he could feel his energy draining away.

“Knock it off!” she shouted as she entered the open street.

John adjusted his grip on the pistol, palms sweating. He watched with bated breath as Anthony lowered his rifle and the Raider approached. Her face was freckled and dirty, red hair pulled back into a ponytail and revealing a high undercut. Her leather armour was worn, and she carried her combat shotgun with poise.

“Red,” Anthony greeted with open arms and his signature smile.

The Raider ignored his gesture. “You look like shit.” Her steely blue eyes cast themselves over John sending a chill down his spine. “Who’s the kid?”

“First of all, that’s not a nice thing to say,” he replied with a feigned pout. “Second of all, this is John, who I don’t think likes being shot at very much.” His voice rose enough during the last sentence so to ensure anyone listening would hear. A _fuck you_ came from the apartment complex.

The guard kept her stoic gaze on John for a few long, intimidating moments until finally she returned her attention to Anthony. Tucking the shotgun under one arm, she removed a pack of cigarettes from her trouser pockets. “Boss still wants to see you.” She tapped out a smoke, brought it to her lips, and lit it with a corroded flip lighter.

“Not now,” Anthony whined. “I have important things to do.”

She scowled. “I’ve covered for you enough. Just do me this one favour so he’ll get off my ass.”

Anthony smirked. “Ass like that, it’s no wonder-”

“Cut the shit,” Red snapped, eyes flashing. “Or I’ll cut you.”

“Fine. Whatever.” Anthony rolled his eyes and swung his hands out from his sides. “Can you keep an eye on John?”

An incredulous look swept her weatherworn features. “Christ. I’m not your damn babysitter.” She flicked the ash off her cigarette and started moving back to the stairs.

“Wait!” Anthony stopped her. He rifled deep through his bag as she looked on impatiently. John clenched his jaw, nervous. “Here.” He pulled out a small off-white token, turning it around in his fingers as he displayed it in the air. John recognised it as a chessman. A Queen. He glanced at Red quickly enough to see her stern expression soften.

Red approached, lips open and tongue curling up over her teeth, eyes on her little prize. “Well… I can’t leave my post…”

Anthony smiled, knowing he’d won. He relinquished his bargaining chip and Red gestured for them to follow her inside. The encampment was small, encompassing the oyster bar to the immediate left and the narrow stone backstreets between the adjoined buildings. Littered with liquor bottles, chem paraphernalia and decorated with dismembered bodies, it was as filthy and depressing as John would have expected for Raiders. They passed through a tiny stone courtyard containing four sets of tarnished outdoor tables and into the confines of the old diner. The wooden walls were peeling with green paint and the shabby carpet had miraculously retained its lurid blue colour.

Anthony was quick to move. “Be good while I’m gone!” He pointed at John and with a skip in his step, disappeared past the wooden counter and through a door beyond.

John caught the eye of a mohawked raider passing through the backstreet. She blew him a kiss before bringing two fingers up to her mouth and waggling her tongue between them. He turned back to Red, intent on breaking the ice and alleviating his anxiety. “So you uhh… know how to play? Chess, that is.”

Pocketing her Queen, she took a long drag from her cigarette, eyes fixed upon him. “I would if I had all the pieces.” Her tone and expression were indecipherable. A long moment elapsed before she spoke again. “Also, it’s hard to play when everyone is shitfaced or stoned.” Finally her hard gaze shifted to her cigarette. “What about you?”

John shifted his feet, tapped his pistol against his palms. “No. Never actually.”

“Shame. More people should learn.” She looked at him, expression still stone. “I know these idiots could do with a lesson in taking advantage. And how to lose.” There was a hint of bitter disappointment in her voice.

For a moment John wanted to ask the Raider why she was here. Instead he held his tongue; it was not his place to ask. So they waited in awkward silence for Anthony’s return. Red paced on the spot, smoking her cigarette and exchanging comments with another two guards by the windows. Commotion in the backstreet caught John’s attention, and he edged to the doorway to watch in quiet horror as three Raiders hacked the limbs from the body of an unfortunate traveller. For a moment they toyed with the arms, pulling off rings and smacking each other with the limp and bloodied hands. With brutal strength, a meathook was forced up and under the ribcage, where it was tethered from a second storey window frame of the opposite building. The trio jeered in morbid delight as the desecrated corpse was strung up high on display.

John took a deep breath, stomach turning. He looked away before he could be caught gawking at the gruesome display. Red, cigarette held low behind her, was now busy peering into a crate of Molotov cocktails balanced precariously in the arms of a short, skinny Raider. Unperturbed by the gory activities of her cohorts outside, she scolded the other man for sloppy handiwork before waving him back in the direction of the door that Anthony had exited through.

Red came to stand beside John in the entryway. She held her pack of cigarettes out on offer. “The world’s an ugly place, kid. I don’t know where you’re from, but if you don’t get used to it, you’ll end up looking just like that poor bastard.” She tipped her head in the direction of the new addition to the bloody décor.

John didn’t respond. He accepted a cigarette and allowed the taller guard to light it. He kept his eyes low to the ground and silence remained between them. It occurred to him that she was likely part of this group for one reason: survival.

At last, Anthony returned, irritability glimmering across his unshaven features. “I’m sure you two are getting along like a vertibird on fire, but time’s a wasting,” he said with a wave of his hand.

John was taken aback by his sudden change in demeanour. Red remained stoic and unconcerned.

“I trust we’ll see you again.” Red dropped her cigarette stub and crushed it into the carpet underfoot. She stepped aside to allow Anthony room to exit, eyes catching John. “Be careful out there, little pawn.”

Patience apparently thinning, Anthony hurried John back around the corner and out to the street.

“So… you okay?” John asked as they resumed their journey down the road. He looked up to catch sight of Red watching them through the window of Shenley’s, and briefly held her gaze.

“Dumb, greedy shits think my last batch was sour,” Anthony griped, getting John’s attention back. “I think they’re a bunch of fucking morons who got their shit mixed up. Now I gotta get them another batch.”

-

Goodneighbor was identifiable only by a handful of dilapidated wooden signs and the handful of drunk and beaten-down people lingering in the vicinity. The notorious town was walled off from the rest of the Commonwealth by a patchwork of wood and sheet metal. There was apparently only one legitimate entrance: a corroded door, flecked with lingering remnants of blue paint. Anthony immediately seemed more relaxed now that he was home again. He wasn’t even concerned when the sound of struggling caught their attention from above. Atop the wall, two men grappled with a drifter. The drifter kicked and tugged his arms in a desperate attempt to flee their grasp.

“Fuckin’ grab my caps while I ain’t lookin’ will ya?” one of them growled as they shoved the drifter off the wall.

The man landed with a sickening crack on the pavement where he lay in a lifeless heap.

“Holy shit…” John choked under his breath.

“Keep your head down and you’ll be fine. Just follow my lead.” Anthony gave John a reassuring slap on the shoulder before leading him through the door.

The first thing John noticed was the smell. It was an acrid blend of urine, stale vomit, and rotten garbage, all condensed and contained amongst the tall buildings surrounding the town. He grimaced, and couldn’t even fathom what it must smell like during the summertime.

“Sidearms only,” barked a guard. “Holstered and open at all times. You can and will be subjected to random searches at our leisure. Non-compliance will be met with force.”

The second thing John noticed was the open shack to their immediate right. The guard that spoke sat within, behind a low counter. A fedora was dipped lazily over his forehead while a cigarette stub poked from between pudgy fingers. Behind him, a series of open crates filled with all manner of armaments. Three surly thugs wielding submachine guns stood on guard, blocking further entry into the town. Behind them stood a low stone wall separating the immediate entry to the courtyard beyond.

“Yeah, yeah. Heard it all before. Try not to lose her would ya?”Anthony dropped his rifle on the bench.

“I’m sure _Beatrice_ will be fine,” the guard replied with a mocking emphasis on the weapon’s name. Without leaving his seat he grabbed the weapon and threw it into one of the crates. He settled his hands over his stomach and leaned back into his chair. “Now unless you got a Fan Man hidden in that purse o’ yours, Anthony, move the fuck along.”

John shadowed Anthony as they moved away from the depot, the other three guards watching their every move. Anthony searched through his bag, revealing a revolver and tucking it into his waistband. John followed suit, ensuring his shirt no longer concealed his knife and securing the pistol in his own belt.

“You want us to search the new meat?” one of the standing guards asked.

The man at the desk eyed John up and down with malicious intent. Panic swept through his belly. After careful deliberation, he spoke. “Not now. Wait for him to get comfortable in our little town.” He sneered, and crushed his cigarette stub into an overfilled ashtray.

The standing guards moved aside, allowing entry to Goodneighbor. The Old State House, run down from war and neglect, overshadowed the dirty town. By its staircase lay a bleeding drifter, their immobility not ready to give up whether they were unconscious or dead. Anthony walked with quiet conviction, John following closely beside him.

“What’s with the small gun rule?” John asked in a hushed tone. His attention was partial to two drifters arguing over one of the many dirty mattresses lining the town wall.

“Eh.” Anthony shrugged, his focus remaining ahead. “Who knows? Some say it’s because the only thing that truly scared Vic’s boys was the deathclaw that came to town a few years back. Others think it’s some sick way to trick us and torment us further.”

John had to think hard, trying to remember where he’d heard the name Vic before. They passed an open shopfront on the corner where a small woman cloaked in rags sat on the step, clutching an inhaler of Jet. She shrieked incomprehensible ramblings to anyone that would listen.

“Vic… he’s in charge?” John asked hesitantly.

“Yep. Asshole extraordinaire.”

They reached a broken white door a short distance from the corner shop; part of the door had been forced through at some point, leaving easy access the inner lock. Anthony reached through into the darkness, unlocking the door with a _click_.

“You won’t see much of him. But don’t underestimate the guy. Or his army of goons.” He pushed open the door with his boot and led John into the dark, musty entrance hall of the warehouse. “C’mon, meet the gang.”

Anthony led him down the hall towards a concrete stairwell. John could not help but sneak a glimpse into the rooms adjoining the hall. In the low light of lanterns, people lay on the floor or on bedrolls, chems and food packaging scattered amongst them. In a far corner, John caught sight of a man against the wall, submachine gun at his feet with a woman kneeling in front of him. He averted his eyes and allowed himself to be led up a series of crumbling stairs and to the third level.

Throughout the third floor, splintered pillars supported the cracked ceiling above. What was formerly a wide and open level had been split up into apparent camps, separated by dirty sheets, cinderblocks, and filing cabinets. Thin mattresses, torn couches and rusted appliances made up the scant furnishings. Only one window, in the furthest corner, was not shuttered. Daylight spilt through it, although not enough. Even the darkest corners required oil lanterns to illuminate them. _He’s a Demon, He’s a Devil, He’s a Doll_ streamed softly from an out of sight radio.

Much to John’s relief, Anthony’s small group had laid claim to the corner with the open window, the impromptu living space partitioned by a line of washing machines. He was further relieved to be met by alert, awake and seemingly non-threatening people sitting amongst two couches and an array of mattresses.

“John, this is Laura, Marigold, Marc, and Finn.” Anthony put his hand on John’s shoulder. “Everyone, this is John. It’s his first time in Goodneighbor, so be nice.”

John smiled and waved. Marigold, a short, buxom brunette, was by his side faster than he knew what was happening.

“Hey, cutie,” she cooed, slithering her arm around his slender waist. She was quick to guide him to the threadbare yellow couch lining the wall.

“Christ, Goldie.” Anthony dropped into the springy cushions beside John, digging through his bag for something. “She never was one to beat around the bush,” he remarked pointedly at John.

John couldn’t tell if the comment was purposely cruel or if it was part of their regular banter, but Marigold appeared to hold no concern for Anthony’s words. Instead, she eyed off the three syringes of Med-X that appeared in his hand, fingers tracing mindless patterns over the curve of John’s neck. He shuddered lightly as her soft fingertips brushed over his collarbone.

“We really only have one rule amongst us.” Anthony passed one of the Med-X syringes across to Marigold. Her hands slipped away from John and she settled back, syringe held delicately between her lips as she swiftly removed her belt. “We share resources. Food. Chems. Bullets. Helps us survive.” He held up the remaining two syringes.

John’s eyes strayed to the vivid purple chem. He’d had it before, for the aches and pains that no stimpak could alleviate, but never like this. Never recreationally.

“What’s it like?” he asked.

Anthony gestured to Marigold. “Just ask Goldie. It’s her favourite.”

John glanced back to see Marigold was already injecting herself, the end of her belt grasped between her teeth. Releasing her tourniquet, she answered with a relieved sigh. “Brother, you’ll be on Mushroom Cloud Number Nine.” She dropped the syringe onto a side table by the arm of the couch and dropped her head back, clutching the crook of her elbow, belt remaining loose over her arm. “Just try it, Johnny,” she encouraged, voice slowing as the chem took effect. “You only live once.”

John recalled his first taste of Mentats. His first hit of Jet. The way the world around him would change – for the better – with every crunch of a tablet or puff on an inhaler. So with little thought or regard he rolled up his sleeve and offered his arm. From Anthony’s pockets came a tourniquet which he fastened just above John’s elbow, the rubber lightly pinching his skin. Strands of hair hung loosely over Anthony’s face as he studied his veins. Then he straightened up, Med-X in hand, and flicked at the syringe.

“It’s okay if you change your mind,” he reassured, priming the hypodermic with a light squirt.

John shook his head, his arm starting to tingle. He wiggled his fingers and watched with curiosity. Anthony’s deft fingers, gnarled from years of roughhousing, danced lightly over skin. There was a sharp prickle. Blood flushed in the hub, swirling through the vivid purple fluid. The tourniquet was released with a snap, and into his veins a warm swimming sensation, like thousands of tiny fish battling upriver.

John inhaled deeply. The exhale lasted a lifetime, lungs deflating to the edge of collapse. He wasn’t quite sure if he would ever breathe again. The tensions held in his muscles melted away and he fell. It was a long way down until his head hit the back of the couch. Then, a breath, slow and steady. The world around him tilted and swayed. Flecks of dust pirouetted through the air, glowing softly in the column of window light. Marigold shifted beside him, said something about the Marc. Anthony laughed, his voice carrying slowly. A smile crept into John’s cheeks. He allowed himself to be carried away by the slow, rolling waves of his breath…

A _thump_ and the tinkle of glass shattering echoed from the street outside. John’s eyes snapped open.

“You spilt my fuckin’ drink,” came an unknown voice.

There was a hot weight over him. He blinked, squeezing his eyes. Marigold was passed out over his lap. How long was he out for? The thumping and thudding grew louder and a meek voice begged for whatever was happening to end. John pulled himself out from under the sleeping woman. Noticing Anthony by the window, he joined him, stepping over the intoxicated bodies across the floor. He peered out through the broken window and to the shadowy square below where two goons beat up on a drifter. A third watched on, encouraging his cronies. The fluorescent signage from the flanking bar illuminated the scene in a disturbing shade of red.

“What’s going on?” he asked quietly.

Anthony shrugged one shoulder, like he’d seen it all before a hundred times. “Vic’s boys are on the prowl.”

The victim received a ruthless blow to his abdomen and collapsed to the ground. His perpetrator circled him like a predator. “Can’t ya take a punch?” he taunted.

“Shouldn’t someone help him?” John breathed, eyes fixed on the cruelty.

The other man gave an incredulous, but quiet, _ha!_ “Rule number two: Don’t intervene. Not unless you want a taste of those fists.”

For an extended and gruelling moment, all three men lay their boots into the drifter. Heart racing, John was unable to look away. If he couldn’t help, the least he could do was not turn from the man’s suffering. When the goons pulled away, they searched his pockets and left, remarking on the short life of the fight. The drifter lay still, a dark mound in the middle of the courtyard.

John finally turned away. “Why do people allow this?”

Anthony was still watching the street. “Conditions of life I guess... they’d rather face the barrel of a gun in here than what awaits them out there. Besides, it’s not all bad. Lots of people are here for the charm. All the sex, chems and gambling you could want.” He glanced at John with a smile, his expression quickly softening upon catching sight of John’s pursed lips and furrowed brow. “Look. Goodneighbor is honest about itself. Yeah, it’s full of power-tripping assholes. But it doesn’t pull insidious bullshit like turning you against your neighbour because they _might_ be a robot.”

Considering Anthony’s comment, John looked back out to the street in time to witness two people hurry past the motionless drifter.

“Is he…dead?” John rubbed his elbow, a sense of dread trickling through his gut.

“If he doesn’t get up soon, he will be.”

Silence fell between them. They watched thugs and drifters alike carry about their business with varying levels of intoxication and rowdiness. The drifter lay alone on the cobblestones as if he were nothing more than a fixture of the town.

Eyes fixing on a man groping and kissing at a woman as they stumbled out of the bar, John finally smirked and asked, “Do you always lure Diamond City folk to your criminal chem house?”

Anthony snorted. “You make me sound like the witch in _Hansel and Gretel_. Shit, I haven’t read that book since…” He paused in thought, trying to contain laughter. “Since I was seven?” They exchanged humoured glances and he quickly settled with a shrug. “I dunno.” He turned his body, crossing his arms over his chest and shifting to lean back into the wall. “Not usually. Just the ones I think of as friends.”

John returned his gaze to the street to see the drifter moving, pushing himself up off the ground before staggering away. He chuckled softly. “Well, you sure know how to show a guy a good time.”

With a smile, Anthony fished through his pant pocket. “Told you it wasn’t so bad,” he replied, handing over a canister of Jet.


	8. Violent Delights

**_2277_ **

Pieces of carapace cracked underfoot as John navigated around the remains of radroaches. A fresh kill, the grisly mess encompassed the width of the alley, viscera splattered over the walls and trash bins. He stepped widely over the last hurdle of spiny legs before sprinting to catch up with Anthony. The other man had treaded through as if it were any other substrate, viscous globs of green and white haemolymph now smeared over his black boots.

He followed Anthony around a corner when the street broke into view only a short distance ahead. In the cool slate shadows, John recognised the tattered remnants of a Grey Tortoise poster; he’d seen it on the way to Goodneighbor. His heart sank a little at the thought of his excursion coming to an end, but he tried to remain vigilant. Anthony slowed further as they approached their exit, raising his hand to steady himself against the wall and peer out into the sundrenched street.

“Hey!” an unknown voice called.

With a _shit!_ Anthony leapt back. John felt his stomach drop as he scrabbled backwards, feet slipping on loose gravel. From the street, boots pounded over the ground, heavy and menacing.

“Show yourself!” angry voices commanded.

They barely made it halfway to the corner when three Gunners encroached, two clad in heavy armour, and the third in military fatigues. Each of them wore a bloodthirsty scowl. There was no hesitation; hot red beams flashed through the air, the deep _twang_ of laser fire echoing in the narrow space. The assault was promptly returned by Anthony’s rifle, each shot more ear-splitting than the last. John ran for cover behind the corner; the shouts, frantic footsteps, and gunfire drowned out any concept of what was happening in his wake. He thought he heard Anthony screaming profanities as rough hands seized his shoulders.  John’s body was immediately shoved to the ground, loose gravel and glass scraping his forearms. Panicking, John rolled over, grasping for the pistol in his belt. The Gunner was quick, looming over him and kicking the 10mm from his grip. Pain seared through his hand and to his elbow, the pistol grating over the pavement as it scattered away.

The Gunner laughed, unsettling and cruel. “Fight me, you coward,” he dared, beckoning with bandaged, knobbly fingers.

Blood pounding through his ears, John scuttled backwards only to have the Gunner continue after him. His armour was dinted and decorated by dark splatter, face twisted into a sadistic grin that spanned for miles. John rolled back onto his stomach and pushed himself off the ground in a bid to escape. A single, large hand snatched the back of his shirt, tight grasp catching at a chunk of his ponytail. In one swift move, John’s small frame was jerked back and the Gunner’s free hand delivered a blow to his gut. The air left his lungs and he buckled over, throat filling with the sour taste of bile. His body was thrust into the cold wall, and for a moment the world went white. Adrenaline surged and he gasped for air.

It hit him with the swiftness of the Gunner’s punch that this was a fight for his life. The _twang_ of laser fire, the _boom_ of Anthony’s rifle, the threats coming from the mouth of his opponent, all of them began to fade into muffled background noise. John ducked as a fist came for his face. There was a sickening _crack_ and an angry cry as the Gunner’s knuckles collided with the stone wall. That brief moment was enough to reveal his weakness: his pauldrons did not extend over his armpit. John reached for the combat knife secured to his own hip, unsheathing it. Keeping low, he drove his shoulder into the Gunner’s armoured ribs, the pain dulled by adrenaline. His opponent stumbled back, arms still outstretched. Precious space opened between them.

Without thought or hesitation, John plunged the knife upwards into the vulnerable flesh of the Gunner’s armpit. There was an enraged scream. He withdrew the knife just as quickly, blood squirting. It was the Gunner’s turn to buckle, clutching at his armpit. Determined to survive, John’s body went into auto-pilot. Losing all sense of fear and pain, his mind became clear. _Kill or be killed._

Still buckled and bleeding, face red and neck veins bulging, the Gunner screamed angry, incoherent threats. John seized the opportunity and moved in, planting the bloodied blade into his thick neck, using his momentum to propel the larger man to his knees. He thrust the blade to its hilt before tugging it out. A thick spray of blood followed, spurting over John’s face. He remained still - moving only to wipe the blood out of his eyes - as the Gunner collapsed at his feet. John stood in silence, watching him gurgle, choking and bleeding over the broken asphalt. A glimmer of a plea flashed through the Gunner’s eyes.

John didn’t know how long it took for him to die. Maybe it was seconds. Maybe it was a series of long, excruciating minutes. But when it was over he exhaled in relief, his sight briefly settling upon a symbol carved in of the man’s forehead: _O-_. Adrenaline trickled away, leaving behind an aching that seemed to explode and cascade throughout his entire body. In that moment he realised the silence. His blood ran cold.

 _Anthony_.

He glanced up. Anthony stood only a short distance away, arms crossed over his chest, smiling warmly through the blood exuding from his nose. John swallowed hard before collecting his 10mm pistol and stepping over the corpse to meet him.

“How fucking long were you standing there?” John breathed as he mopped his face with his sleeve.

“Hey, I only saw the last moments.” Anthony sounded defensive, and rightfully so. In the time it took John to take down one guy, he had taken out the other two. He passed over a can of purified water from his satchel, and dug further for stimpaks and a syringe of Med-X. “Anyway. Nice work, killer.”

John barely acknowledged the comment, instead noticing what looked to be a hand-drawn map scrunched in Anthony’s hand. “What’s that?” He took a swig of water, wincing in pain with each little movement.

“Some map I pulled off one of them. Looks like they were headed to HalluciGen, so I’d be on the lookout for more of these assholes.”

-

John’s body was buzzing. Not from chems or a smoke or from the satisfaction of finding an unopened box of Sugar Bombs. It was something else entirely. It was the adrenaline, the thrill of winning against all odds, and a dark sense of pride over the blood staining his hands. In the quiet journey back to Diamond City, John cast aside any doubts, any questions of shame, and permitted himself to feel this strange exhilaration.

As he and Anthony came to stand before the Diamond City gate, intimidating in its sheer size and war-torn grandeur, his rush became smothered by a weight in his chest. The adventure was over. Back to the confines of Diamond City where the inhabitants lived orderly lives in their effort to recreate what they thought the world used to be. Where they got off on scandal, yet continued to sow their seeds of fear deeper into the city soil.

“Try not to look too happy to be home,” Anthony piped, nudging him with his elbow.

John felt his cheeks flush at having been caught in his disappointment. He needed to say something. Something that wasn’t an open admission of _I’m not ready for this to end._ “Well, you know. Can’t have my folks catch me like this.” With a light smile, he gently rubbed at his sore hand in hope of massaging away the pain. At least there was some truth to his comment.

Anthony laughed, shifting the weight of his rifle on his shoulder. “You got somewhere to clean up?”

John scoured his mind. _Emily_. Her parents should be at their daily luncheon, leaving her to tend to business at home. He could scurry straight in to the Upper Stands. He nodded in response, trying to rationalise within himself that this didn’t have to be his only venture outside of the wall.

“Oh good,” Anthony replied, sounding vaguely distracted by something. He rubbed his palms together, fingers spread and taut, hesitant to speak further. “Hey… you’re okay right?” he finally added, forehead creasing as he looked at John in worry.

John’s heart skipped and he stopped rubbing at his hand. “What?” he peeped. Had Anthony picked up on his gratification? Should he be ashamed of taking even the smallest bit of pleasure in killing the Gunner? “No - I mean yes. I’m fine. I’m tired though. Adrenaline dump.” He shrugged, still holding his hand to his chest. “You know how it is.”

Anthony raised an incredulous brow. “Sure? You don’t wanna talk about what happened back there?”

John clicked his tongue, blurting the first answer that came to mind. “I killed a guy before he could kill me.” He shrugged and glanced around, thankful that the Diamond City Security guards meandering about were too busy daydreaming or interrogating a scrappy caravan worker to notice their conversation.

Hand on John’s shoulder, Anthony led him in into the barren space of the Diamond City vestibule. Only a handful of guards loitered, the gatekeepers to the city. A fleeting sensation swept through John’s stomach. Anthony’s concern was beginning to make him second-guess himself, and he took a deep breath to soothe his paranoia. It would only be natural for the other man to be worried.

“Fighting is hard. And killing someone… it ain’t an easy thing to do.” Anthony’s face turned serious. “My first kill was a Talon Company merc, who got his ass beat six ways from Sunday by my dad. I was young. It made me sick, and I dreamt about it for a long time afterwards.” With a roll of his eyes and a gesticulation of his hands, he finished in a deep, cynical tone. “Dad was all _what am I raising you to be_?”

It was impossible to tell who Anthony was trying to appease more with his final comment. But it was the first time he’d spoken of his family. John shifted uncomfortably. “I’m sorry to hear that,” was all he managed.

“Don’t be.” He dismissed the apology with a wave of his hand. “My point is: it gets easier. I just wanted to make sure you were holding up okay.”

Mildly relieved, the sincerity touched him. John rolled his shoulders back, puffing his chest and crossed his heart. “I promise that I am okay.”

They fell silent for a moment, then Anthony took a quick, deep breath. “Right. Well. Good talk then.  I should let you get back home.”

Disappointment swelled. “You’re not coming in?”

He shook his head. “Better get the boys in the lab to get cooking. Otherwise next time you’ll see me I’ll just be a spiked head at Red’s doorstep.” He made an exaggerated shudder.

“I’d be surprised if she kept any of you at all,” John teased.

Anthony slapped his shoulder, grinning wildly. “You _are_ coming out of your shell, _little pawn_.” He gave his shoulder a gentle shake, fingers squeezing. “Alright. Time to part, brother. The guards are beginning to stare.”

John returned the shoulder grab. “I’ll see you soon?”

Anthony pulled away and began to swagger backwards out to the street. He made finger guns, and replied _see you soon_ before turning around.

“Wait!” John called, remaining in his spot. Anthony turned back, still slowly stepping away. Curiosity was getting the better of him, and before he could bite his tongue he asked, “So… what did your dad want you to be?”

A shrug, casual and dismissive. “More like him.” He spun around on his heels with a wave, and strutted away with a whistle.

-

“Should I even ask?” Emily stepped aside, forehead creasing at the sight of John’s dishevelled hair and bloodstained shirt. As he entered her home, she wrinkled her nose in disgust. “Shit. You stink of… well… shit.”

John smirked as she closed the door, her refined features still contorted in a blend of surprise and disgust. He hadn’t been inside her home for a long while now, yet it was exactly as he remembered it. Pre-war paintings hung from the walls while books and worldly trinkets lined the display cabinets. A mended red couch drew his eyes to the centre of the open living area. Upon the oak coffee table lay a small variety of gems and jewellery, accompanied by a loupe and delicate repair tools.

“I’m guessing you need a clean shirt.” Emily removed the dirty white apron she wore over a collared, pastel blue dress, twisting it in her grip. “There’s Nuka Cola in the kitchen,” she offered. Her gaze fell onto his stained hands. “And please wash your hands before you touch anything,” she added in a resigned tone.

“Yes, ma.”

She tossed the balled-up apron onto the couch, much to the disagreement of her large black cat, Pluto, who was comfortably curled up upon it. Emily then disappeared off into a back bedroom without another word.

John waved at Pluto - who proceeded to climb on top of the apron and commence grooming himself – and ventured left into the open plan kitchen. Its wooden furnishings had long ago been sanded back to a smooth finish, and all the details, from the doors to the handles, had been painstakingly matched together. It was a different life in the stands; the Diamond City elite could afford to be choosy.

Washing his hands in the ceramic sink and drying them over his trousers, he helped himself to two bottles from the crate of Nuka Cola on the counter, cracking both open with a flat _fzzt_. John briefly toyed with the two red caps in his hand before setting them down beside the crate. Mood running flat, the aches and pains of his body trickled back to life. The grazing on his arms burned, and the dull ache in his abdomen returned in a nauseating wave. His fingers were stiffening, so he carried both bottles in one hand. From the other room came a soft bumping and banging as Emily searched for a shirt, presumably through her father’s clothing. He wandered back to the living area, dropping into the couch beside Pluto and holding his stomach as the pain reached a crescendo.

“Here you go.” Emily appeared beside him and held up a green t-shirt. “I haven’t seen daddy wear this for ages, so he shouldn’t miss it.” She paused, creases forming between her brows. “Shit. Are you okay? Do you need a stimpak? Med-X?”

“Not right now,” he replied, setting the colas down on the table and taking the clean shirt from her hands.

“So, you gonna tell me what happened?” Emily pressed, tucking dark hair behind her ear and rushing over to sit beside him.

John unbuttoned his shirt, shrugged it from his shoulders, and allowed it to fall behind him. Her eyes widened upon the sight of red and purple blotching on his abdomen. “I got in a fight.” He pulled the oversized t-shirt over his head. “On the way home from Goodneighbor.”

Emily’s mouth hung open for a moment. She closed it with pursed lips, clearly considering her next choice of words. “Okay. Sure. So, the other guy looks worse than you right?”

John leaned back into the couch, hand falling onto the cat beside him. Pluto let out a surprised _brrrp_ and stretched out. “Something like that.” He scratched behind the cat’s ear.

“Did you… go alone?”

He shook his head. “Anthony took me.”

Emily leaned over to pick up her Nuka Cola. “That creepy dealer?”

“He’s not that creepy.” The pain in John’s abdomen continued, and he tipped his head against the couch backing.

She took a swig of cola. “So what was it like?” she asked, a hint of curiosity in her voice.

John furrowed his brows, staring at the wooden ceiling and taking a moment to reflect on the past twenty-four hours. “It was different. Not like Diamond City at all. It was… exciting, actually. Met some new people. Got high. It was kinda cool.” John paused, a grin pulling his lips. “Reminded me of when you, Liam and I would chug Mentats and try to outdo each other.”

He glanced at Emily in time to see her jaw muscles twitching. She licked her lips and dropped her eyes, running a fingertip over the mouth of her Nuka Cola bottle. Sudden regret stung him and he sat back up. “Sorry, I… probably shouldn’t have said that.”

Emily wrinkled her nose and lightly shook her head. “It’s fine. Just… be careful, I guess.”

“Are you worried about me?” John teased, leaning over to bump her lightly with his shoulder.

Her mouth opened and closed as she took a moment to find her words. “No… I just… well, yes. John...” She tapped her finer on the bottle. “Clearly you don’t want to tell me what happened to you, and that’s fine. But the chems… and, well… it’s Goodneighbor. People don’t go there for the sights. They go to get lost, to die.” Her cheeks continued twitching, blue eyes staring intently into his, pleading with him. “I don’t want to lose you too. You’re the only person that… endures me. So just please don’t get killed?”

He turned his gaze away to focus on Pluto. Scratching under his chin, the cat reciprocated the affection by purring and delivering a series of bunts. It dawned on him that he didn’t want to be the cat, confined within walls and fed only what its owner desired to feed. “Its fine, Em. I can look after myself.”


	9. Duality

**_2277_ **

Doctor Sun examined John’s hand, running his thumb along the lengths of each metacarpal, probing and squeezing. The doctor’s thin brows were knotted in concentration as he _hmm_ ’d and _huh_ ’d in thought. John gritted his teeth, wincing in pain with every bit of pressure.

“The good news is that your hand is not broken,” the young doctor assured, turning his hand around, fingers working down to palpate his carpals. “But you’re very bruised. Try to go easy with it.” He proceeded to flex and extend John’s wrist, eliciting a hiss as pain burned through taut muscles. “And whatever you did to hurt yourself, don’t do it again.” Doctor Sun released John’s hand. “That will be fifteen caps. Do you require any Med-X for the pain?”

 _Every chem for every need. As prescribed by me, myself, and I!_ Solomon’s pitch drifted ironically from his neighbouring shop. They exchanged tense glances; John got the distinct impression that Doctor Sun had already seen patients disregard him for a quicker fix or a harder blend of chems.

He rubbed the back of his hand, the bruising from the Gunner’s boot a mottling of purple and green. He’d told his parents he’d fallen. “No. I think I’ll be okay.”

The doctor rolled his eyes and tugged lightly at the lapels of his dirty lab coat. “Well if you change your mind, come back to me. God only knows what that charlatan next door will give you. Fifteen caps, if you will.”

John complied, fishing a small pouch of caps from the pocket of his leather jacket. As he counted out his caps to hand over, commotion stirred from the marketplace. Loud, angry voices, the words indistinct to anyone not paying attention. An unhappy customer, or perhaps Diamond City Security were just irate from somebody’s unwelcome antics. Doctor Sun was either not interested or not concerned, instead quick to wave John out of the medical centre and return to his inventory.

Stepping out into the marketplace, John’s eyes were drawn to the disturbance. Outside of Commonwealth Weaponry, two men argued. Both were the same stature and had the same shaggy, dirty blonde hair. They moved in the same manner and had identical voices. All that separated them was their clothing; wasteland rags one the loudest of the two, grey shirt and jeans on the other. Arturo Rodriguez, rifle in hand, yelled from his counter in vain for them to take it elsewhere. From a distance it was clear that the gun enthusiast was curbing his desire to shoot. A crowd was beginning to gather, and people from all corners of the marketplace were stopping in their tracks to gawk. Now finding himself as curious as his neighbours, John edged forward to get a better view.

“You took my wife! My children!” cried the man in rags. He knocked his twin to the ground with a ruthless shove to the chest.

“I don’t even know who you are!” the other man wailed, scuttling backwards as his assailant approached.

The man in rags reached for his twin, yanking at his collar and delivering a blow to his cheekbone. The bystanders gasped in unison, one person screaming in encouragement for a fight to start. John felt himself pushed to the side from behind as three members of Diamond City Security descended on the scene, demanding an end to the altercation.

The first man pointed at his twin, face red and clear snot pouring from his nose. “This man is a synth! An imposter!” he screamed.

John felt somebody grab his arm and he turned to face a woman he’d never met before. “They should shoot them both,” she squeaked, voice wavering. “They’re abominations of nature.”

John tugged his arm away giving her a look of confusion and disgust. Her eyes remained set on the twins, bringing her hands up in front of her mouth as the scene unfolded in a manner of seconds. A single gunshot cracked the air, returning John’s attention. More gasping and indecipherable chatter erupted. The same person encouraging the fight booed in disappointment. The man in rags stood frozen in place, pipe pistol in hand, while his twin lay in a collapsed heap, blood pooling under his head and trickling over the loose ground. Security responded immediately in a disconcerting display of _shoot now, ask later_ , gunning the standing man down with a rapid series of bullets. The gunfire seemed to echo throughout the entire city and for a long moment the crowd was silent.

“Everybody get back to what you were doing!” one of the guards bellowed at the crowd. “Ain’t nothin’ more to see.”

Muttering amongst themselves, the people began to disperse. John remained in his spot, eyes fixed upon the two bodies ahead. Anthony’s words about neighbours turning on each other came back to him, bringing with them abhorrence towards the guards. He rubbed his nape, exhaling heavily and suddenly feeling tired and foggy. As he turned away, he could hear the guards carelessly quarrelling over who would speak to the dead man’s wife.

-

Years of chewing Mentats like Gum Drops had made John accustomed to their chalky, bland texture, and this morning was no different. Running his tongue along his teeth, probing at each gap to loosen pasty chunks of chem, he worked to redistribute salvia around his dry mouth. Every little stretch of his jaw throbbed through his already sore head. He felt as if a cloud had settled in his brain, choking his thoughts and slowing all cognition. It was a feeling that was becoming increasingly more familiar, and one that was never soothed by water, sleep, or a low dose of Med-X. All that lifted the thick fog and alleviated the pain were Mentats.

Right now, he had to push past; his parents had given him enough time off. John pocketed the newly-emptied Mentats tin, rubbing his eyes in an attempt to refocus his vision. As he came to the door separating their private home from the shopfront, Martha’s voice drifted from outside. She was arguing with someone, and as he quietly opened the door to peer out, he recognised who that someone was.

“It says right here, John McDonough. I will only deliver it to him in person.” Hamilton stood in his trademark suit on the opposite side of the counter. The ghoul clung to a small brown package and tapped at the indecipherable text with one gnarly finger.

“I don’t know who you are or what you’re trying to deliver, but I’m certain I can pass it on to my son,” Martha contended. She had her back turned to John, standing defensively with her hands on her hips.

“Just call me the mailman.” Frustration strained in the ghoul’s voice. “Is John McDonough here?” he asked a little louder.

John stepped out to the shop, garnering both their attention. Martha exhaled loudly in defeat, dropping her hands to her sides.

“Darling, you have a package.” She gave the ghoul a suspicious side-eye.

John nodded in acknowledgement, moving over to the counter and accepting the parcel from Hamilton.

“You got any more Sugar Bombs?” the ghoul asked, now ignoring Martha’s presence.

Without a word, John reached under the counter and presented Hamilton with his request. “Four caps,” he told him, briefly locking eyes with his mother.

Ham placed the caps down, tipping his hat at both John and Martha. In his peripheral vision, John could see his mother’s mouth opening and closing as the ghoul sauntered away like nothing had happened.

“Who is that?” his mother asked before John could see where Hamilton disappeared to. “What did he just give you?”

“Ma! Please!” John rubbed his forehead with the base of his thumb. “A little privacy, would you?”

Martha’s mouth remained agape, her hands rising and falling as she tried to find her words. “You go missing for a day. You’re getting all these headaches. You get grumpy. Now you’re getting visits from… whoever that was! What is going on?”

John casually dropped his package on the chair and straightened his posture. “Nothing, ma. I’m fine. Look, I’m feeling better today, so you should have tea with Renee or something.”  He relaxed his face, giving his mother a concerned look in a bid to move her along. “Let me take care of the shop.”

Martha licked her lips, jaw jutting. She shook her head, giving up. “Guy and Evette have invited us for dinner. Please be there.”

“Of course I will, ma.” He moved in, placing a hand on her shoulder as he kissed her cheek. “Go. I got this.”

She took a moment to fuss through a crate by the wall, handing over a small pile of books for John to keep under the counter. He could see her eyes constantly darting back to the little package on his chair, but she said nothing more of it. When she left, John sat and relaxed back into the chair to examine the parcel, its brown paper folded crisply over the sides. The familiar handwriting merely specified his name. Headache lifting, he allowed a few minutes to elapse, ensuring himself a degree of privacy before slipping his thumb under the paper folds to break the seal. The adhesive was strong and the paper tore, revealing familiar blue and white cardboard packaging. Sugar Bombs, or part of anyway. The lower portion of the cereal box had been cut away, the edges folded down to seal the prize within.

John peeled apart the package, delight blooming at the sight of a Jet inhaler and a Med-X syringe. But it was the familiar green and white tin of Mentats that provoked a feeling of relief. Accompanying the chems was a note.

_The world is a book and those who do not travel read only one page._

_I hope you want to keep reading._

_\- A._


	10. Kindling

**_2277_ **

Over time the antique globe had faded, the names of countries barely visible and its semi-circle mount tarnished. John gave it a spin with his forefinger. Bearings squeaked and the globe struggled to complete a single rotation. He took a swill of lukewarm Gwinnett ale, and behind him, Guy droned on about the recent synth incident. Once more, Diamond City was on high alert as its inhabitants panicked over the Institute threat. _Economy, John. You control the trade routes; you control the whole damn Commonwealth._ John nodded and his eyes wandered over the mismatched array of books and trinkets decorating the sideboard. _We will become slaves_. He allowed himself a moment to zone out, picking up an overly-enthusiastic, cartoonish figurine wearing a blue jumpsuit and turning it around in his hand. Stamped into the base were the words _Vault Tec_. John put the peculiar item back in its place.

He paced slowly along the length of the sideboard, swirling the Gwinnett ale around in its bottle and intermittently nodding in feigned responses to whatever Guy was saying. There was enough synth talk outside the wooden walls of his brother’s home as it was. Why couldn’t they just giggle over Evette’s collection of romance novels instead? They may never have been close, but only a few short years ago they would have done just that. As Guy’s tunnel vision narrowed over the years, John began to feel like little more than a speck in his peripheral sight.

Approaching the end of the sideboard, he came across a thick file folder squashed underneath a pile of political texts. Only one page hung out enough to glimpse the title: _The Identification and Mitigation of Threats from Synthetics and Other Non-Humans._ The author’s name was hidden by the buff card enclosing the document.

“Wouldn’t you agree, John?” The question prompted him to turn back to face Guy. His older brother sat casually on the cream couch, bare feet resting upon the coffee table. Guy’s moustache was thick and flecked with grey, bringing further attention to his broad, downturned nose. John hated that moustache; it made his older brother look like a pompous tool. Guy watched him patiently, brows lightly creasing as he waited for an answer.

“Oh. Yeah.” John waved a hand to the side. “Totally.” Hoping he had not just agreed with something morally reprehensible, he strode away from the dubious contents of the folder to join his brother on the couch. He gave a toothy smile and raised his beer.

Guy’s beady brown eyes fixed on John and he almost appeared taken aback by the gesture. John lowered the bottle, leaning back into the couch, its fabric scratchy against the bare skin of his arms. Guy’s face relaxed, and he looked down into his own amber bottle. “If somebody doesn’t stand up to these… _synths_ they’re going to take everything we’ve built. I’m glad we can finally agree on something.” He took a long swig.

 _Shit_. John’s heart skipped and he reprimanded himself for not paying attention. He rolled a peeled corner of the brew’s label under his thumb. “Still though,” John began, trying to relieve himself from whatever he’d just agreed with, “don’t you think Security were just a little too trigger happy?”

The question was met with an incredulous laugh that went on for longer than John was comfortable with. Unease bloomed in his gut and he took another drink, his head beginning to feel light from the alcohol.

Guy settled, slinging his feet off the coffee table and scratching at his hairline. Thick hair was the only physical trait the brothers shared, and with a decade between them, Guy was certainly looking older than his age. _Refined_ , their mother had described upon his early greying. “I think for once in their useless existence they acted appropriately,” he determined. “Imagine if that thing shot someone.”

John glanced down at the red and black Gwinnett label, gut twisting as his mind replayed the event in graphic detail. “Somebody did get shot. The guards argued over who should tell the family.”

“Yes… well…” Guy cleared his throat, rolled his shoulders. “Collateral damage, little brother.” Another swig of his beer.

The answer disappointed him; life could not be this cheap. “So their only crime is existing…” John muttered, eyes tracing back to the fat folder on the sideboard ahead. “And being in the wrong place at the wrong time.”

Guy’s jaw muscles twitched and his tone grew defensive. “You make it sound as if they’re the victims.” The living room grew smaller, wooden walls closing in upon them. “They come in here, take our identities, infiltrate our families, and we are none the wiser. We know nothing about them, John. They have the advantage.” He paused to recompose his voice, considering the last of the brew in his bottle. “And Mayor Roberts won’t do a fucking thing about it. Says it’s too hard, we don’t have the resources, and he lets them live among us - like that freak detective.”

John downed the last mouthful of beer, setting the bottle down with a heavy _clink_. His brother made a valid argument, one that caused his comparatively passive stance to tremble with sudden uncertainty. He would not admit that however. Whether through compassion for others or through stubborn, brotherly reluctance, he would not acknowledge that Guy may be even remotely correct.

“First of all, Valentine doesn’t exactly lie about what he is,” John pointed out with a dismissive flick of the wrist. “Second of all, what would you suggest? You want to be the mayor someday. What would you do to stop them?”

All he wanted to do right now was rise to his feet and tear open the file folder. His older brother could not hold so much vitriol; their parents had not raised them in such a manner. In his limited life experience, most people just wanted to live in peace. And yet, especially for the powerless, peace was apparently only afforded to those deemed worthy of it. He drew in a long breath and awaited his brother’s response with a soft, forced smile.

“I would assign resources where they are needed to keep this city and its people safe.” Guy chugged the last of his brew before pointing the empty bottle at John. “I would carry out the will of the people.”

-

 _One fight._ Anthony had told him. _It’ll be fun._ John had been somewhat reluctant to follow; making a less than witty remark about how could anything be fun when the repurposed subway station carried the dismal name End of the Line. He was still stewing over the conversation with his brother from the night before, and the promise of beer and better company won him over.

They stood in the bar encircled by an eclectic mixture of Vic’s boys and drifters, all writhing, bouncing, and jeering. The table and chairs had been pushed back against the walls to make space, with the size of the fight ring granted only by the generosity of bloodthirsty punters. There were only two rules, plastered in large white text behind the bar: Stay off the bar, and leave the bartender alone. A _thwack_ erupted, immediately followed by the scuffle of shoes on the splintered hardwood floor. The crowd roared in applause. John rose to his toes to catch a better glimpse of the two drifters in the fight circle. The Brute – a formidable champion with a prominent, square jaw living up to his namesake – encouraged the crowd, hands in the air beckoning for their praise. His smaller opponent, a lanky drifter whose skin was patchwork of black tattoos, wiped the blood from his freshly broken nose. Upon his chest were the words _Blood Is Thicker_.

Dropping back to flat feet, John chugged his beer, the brew flat and bitter and of questionable origin. Not one to feel claustrophobic, the number of people crammed into the space made him tense. The air was thick with the smell of sweat, spilled booze, and old blood, the crowd perpetuating the foul atmosphere with their disturbing demands for violence. After working the audience for what felt like the longest time, the fighters were at each other again. The smaller opponent was apparently unworthy of having his name remembered. What the man lacked in strength and height, he made up for in speed, dodging and sidestepping the wrapped knuckles of the Brute. John was already beginning to feel that it would be more enjoyable if it were fairer. But this was Goodneighbor, where nothing was ever fair.

The round progressed, the drifter holding his own with a deft strike to the liver. The crowd booed as the Brute buckled, and they booed even harder when the drifter delivered a swift right hook. Visibly enraged, the Brute was quick to push through his pain and retaliate, grabbing his opponent’s wrist and punching him hard in the gut. John hissed through his teeth. Beside him, Anthony roared, thrusting his bottle in the air, droplets of beer splashing out and onto the woman in front of him. For a moment John’s view grew even more obscured as people rose higher on their toes, arms and drinks held out in applause and seemingly growing in length with each ruthless blow the Brute gave. Through the shouting and the whistling, John could still hear each sickening punch and crack. He glanced at Anthony beside him, the man was pulling at his hair in anticipation, eyes fixed on the bloody scene ahead. John took another swig, peering through the crowd to see the drifter stagger, the blood on his inked chest glistening in the diffuse light. The drifter fell, and the Brute disappeared down out of sight to join him on the ground. John couldn’t see anything anymore, just the flash of wet fists. Nobody endeavoured to stop the fight. It seemed the crowd would get the ending they demanded. The bar’s name now felt fitting.

Having had enough, John turned around, squeezing through the mass of people towards the narrow stairwell. Even through the noise he could hear the bartender – a rusted Mister Handy with a cockney accent – egging on the Brute. Head low, John rapidly made his way up the stairs and out of the Line. It was dark outside, cool air striking his face. He hadn’t realised how warm he was until now and he exhaled heavily, slowing his pace as he wandered out to the cracked road, floodlit by the red glow of the Memory Den. Pausing, beer bottle still in hand, he retrieved a tin of Berry Mentats from his pocket, clicking open the lid and dropping one of the artificially flavoured tablets in his mouth.

“Whatsamatter, kid?” came a voice from behind as he returned the tin to his pocket. It was derisive and familiar. “Didn’t enjoy the fight?”

John spun around, swallowing the half-chewed chem and tightening his grip on the near-empty bottle. A lump formed in his throat upon immediately recognising the entry guard that ridiculed and threatened to search him each time he entered the town. A weaselly man in a ratty pinstripe suit, with greasy dark hair, narrow pointed nose, and sly little eyes, the guard didn’t look like much. John may have had his bottle, pistol and knife, but the guard had his authority, his submachine gun and a plethora of hot-headed cronies to call upon.

“I-I was looking for a friend. To take back to the fight.” The words slipped from his mouth and he hoped to whatever deities that still hung around after the bombs that they were the right ones. He swallowed hard and lifted his chin, rolling his shoulders back ever so slightly.

The guard laughed, a brief, low sound that sent a chill through John’s blood. His feet stayed glued to the broken asphalt as the guard approached with a menacing grin. Down the street came a single gunshot, immediately followed by the _brakka brakka_ of a retaliating submachine gun.

“You should be careful wandering around these streets by yourself,” the man told him, fingertips tapping lightly over the barrel of his weapon. “Things get a little… _intense_ after dark.”

John clenched his jaw, continuing to stand tall, free fist balling at his side. Eyes locked onto the other man, his blood remained cool and awash with adrenaline. For a fleeting moment he imagined glassing him. Suddenly the guard jabbed him in the hip with the barrel of his gun. John staggered as the iron sight caught in his shirt and dragged upwards. Buckling over, the bottle slipped from his hand with a smash. Leftover beer sloshed over the hem of his pants.

“You’re in over your head here, kid.” His sinister grin broadened, and he released one hand from the weapon only to shove John by the shoulder. John glared at him, straightening back up, smoothing down his shirt, refraining from saying a word. “And what’s this?” the guard continued, eyes widening in false surprise. “Is that a concealed weapon?”

John’s heart stopped and he glanced down to see his untucked shirt partially covering the knife sheathed to his belt. Panic struck his chest as he realised he’d just lost the sick game the guard was playing.

“You know what happens to folks with concealed weapons in Goodneighbor?” He lowered the submachine gun and grabbed John’s arm. Glass crunched underfoot. Blood pounded through John’s ears. Everything else fell silent as passers-by strayed away, blatantly ignoring what was happening.

John struggled against his grip. “Fuck off!” No sooner had the words escaped his mouth when he broke free. Filled with regret, his fear immediately intensified; Vic’s boys were easily agitated and hardly forgiving. Few residents were game to resist their violent tendencies. For a long moment John stood frozen, like a radstag doe he caught off-guard one night in the shack by the water whose terrified eyes were wide in the glare of the oil lantern.

Almost ironically came the sharp tinkling of shattering glass. A _whoosh_ and somebody screamed _fire!_ Both John and the guard looked over to a building across from the End of the Line. Through a broken window came an orange blaze, flames licking at the night air.

The guard swore and turned back to John. “This ain’t over, kid.”

In one sift motion, he spun the submachine gun around and butted him in the abdomen. Winded, John stumbled back to land heavily on his ass, thankfully not falling upon the broken glass. As he wrapped one arm around his belly, groaning in pain, his assailant ran off. John watched as other goons ran to the scene, each one bellowing _who did this?!_

Relieved by the well-timed distraction and wondering how many more hits to the stomach he could conceivably take, John pushed himself up from the ground. Sticking close to the red brick wall of the Old State House, he staggered past the bar. People were gathering in the small courtyard to watch the show. Goons and drifters crawled into the old building in daring attempts to control the flames before they could spread further. Of course, the guard was not game enough to get his hands dirty; instead he went around demanding that someone own up to the damage. John reached the concrete stairs leading into the warehouse where his unofficial Goodneighbor family resided.

“Not staying for the show?” Anthony asked from behind.

John stopped and spun around. Anthony stood in the shadows of the narrow alley between the warehouse and the Old State House. Now clad in a worn leather jacket, he took a drag of his cigarette before flicking it away in the direction of the fire. John immediately grew suspicious; the man must have made a Molotov with what was left of his drink. How it was tossed into the building without anyone noticing was beyond him.

“That was you?” John asked in a low voice, glancing around cautiously.

Anthony crossed the short distance over, shoving John in the shoulder. “Don’t _ever_ make me do something like that again,” he hissed, briefly casting his eyes back to the scene. “The fuck you run off for, anyway?”

A small group of goons ran in their direction, carrying buckets of water. They pressed up against the stone wall of the warehouse to allow their passage. Both men were silent for a moment, eyes fixed upon each other. John clenched his jaw. “Don’t take me to fights like that again. That was sick. Why’d you think I’d enjoy that shit?”

Anthony shrugged one shoulder. “If you didn’t like it, all you had to do was say so.” He looked John up and down. “Besides, I distinctly remember your face when you killed that Gunner. You loved it.”

John inhaled sharply through his nose. “That was self-defence!”

With one hand, Anthony gestured back to the bar buried behind the walls of the Old State House. Beyond, the firefight continued, people screaming for water and blankets. “And that in there? That was survival. Two consenting adults. You got any idea how many caps the winner gets paid? This is Goodneighbor, John. People need to eat, and like it or not, they’ll do whatever it takes to do that.”

The words stung in their truthfulness. John had never felt like a bigger, stupider idiot than he did now. He turned his back against the wall as Anthony pushed past him, heading up the stairs into the warehouse he called home. “You coming in?” Anthony asked, realising that John was not following. “I wouldn’t recommend staying out here.” His voice softened. “Or trying to get home in the dark.”

“I’m sorry,” was all John could muster as guilt settled. He remained against the cold stone, eyes low to the pavement. Not a single weed grew through any of the cracks. “I just… you were having a good time. I didn’t want you to leave on account of me.”

Soft footsteps followed as Anthony hopped down the stairs. He slung his arm around John’s shoulder. “Let’s just get inside before they put the fire out. And for fucks sake, speak up next time. I don’t think I can pull that stunt off again.”

As John slipped his arm around the man’s waist, Anthony gave his shoulders a friendly shake. In that moment it was as if the remnants of reason were also shaken away. John’s free hand grabbed at the front of Anthony’s shirt, pulling him in close enough to catch his mouth. They lingered for only a second before John pulled away with a soft gasp. “Sorry that was-”

Before he could finish his apology, Anthony took his face in his hand and moved in for seconds, pushing him back into the stone wall. A flush through John’s stomach, and he melted into the warm taste of cigarettes and Jet. His lips were surprisingly soft, a stark contrast to the stubble grazing John’s chin. Calloused fingers ran along his nape and caught through the base of his ponytail. The world fell silent, punctuated only by the rustle of hands and the occasional soft moan. John gripped Anthony’s waist tightly, keeping him in close, fearful that the moment would end too soon. But no matter how long it lasted it would never be enough, and when Anthony broke away, John’s lips were left to tingle in the cool night air. He smiled at John, that goddamned smile that only served to make him yearn even harder.

“You taste like Berry Mentats,” Anthony said with a soft chuckle, voice barely audible, fingers still tangled through John’s hair. He broke his gaze to check the fire; John’s eyes followed. The blaze had yet to be extinguished, but it was already reduced.

“Guess we should head inside.” John’s heart sank in the knowledge that they were unlikely to pick up where they left off. Someone always remained at the camp; leaving it unattended risked losing the prime position the group had fought to keep.

Anthony gave a soft nod and pulled away. John followed him inside, heart pounding against his ribs as he licked his lips in a desperate attempt to satiate capture the sensation.


	11. The Devil In The Details

**2277**

_Nan-ni shimasho-ka?_

John looked up from his book with a quizzical expression. Takahashi stood before him with a ladle in his claw hand. Within the dome of his head, mechanics rotated and a small red light flashed softly.

_Nan-ni shimasho-ka?_

John opened his mouth but thought better of it. The unique protectron only understood _yes_. So he gestured to his bowl of noodles with the chopsticks in his hand. Takahashi raised his ladle, remaining silent as if he were waiting for John to do something. John scanned his brain, forehead still creased in confusion as his eyes shifted from the protectron’s mechanics, up to his chef hat, and back. He clued on and scooped up a mouthful of noodles. They were lukewarm and slightly soggy, having been temporarily forgotten. Apparently satisfied, Takahashi lowered his ladle and ambled away with heavy, clunking steps.

Shaking his head lightly to himself, John quickly glanced across at Chem-I-Care. The storefront was still empty, and had been all morning. Unusual, since Solomon was not one to wander far. Knocking on the dealer’s door had revealed nothing, and John could only hope he was simply too high to be roused. Probing his teeth with his tongue, John decided to wait a little longer. He reopened the novel and scanned for where he’d left off.

_I wanted to get out and walk eastward toward the park through the soft twilight but each time I tried to go I became entangled in some wild strident argument which pulled me back, as if with ropes, into my chair._

Somebody sat down on the empty stool beside him. In his peripheral vision, John caught a flash of black clothing. The protectron’s automated greeting played out in the background.

_Yet high over the city our line of yellow windows must have contributed their share of human secrecy to the casual watcher in the darkening streets, and I was him too, looking up and wondering._

Takahashi’s clunking steps passed him by from the other side of the cornflour counter. John crossed his ankles, feet dangling from the stool he sat on.

_I was within and without, simultaneously enchanted and repelled by the inexhaustible variety of life._

“I haven’t had noodles as good as these in a long time. And I’ve lived a long time.” The gravelly voice was directed at him.

John’s head snapped out from his book upon realising it was Hamilton sitting beside him. The ghoul’s focus was on his own chopsticks, pre-war plastic, one red and one black with the end broken off. Takahashi returned, delivering a steaming bowl fresh from the oversized cooking pot. John set his book down and rest one elbow on the counter, turning his focus onto his own lunch.

“I have some news about our mutual friend,” Hamilton told him, stirring at his food. _Solomon_? John remained quiet, toying with clusters of noodles and waiting for the ghoul to continue. “He’s been caught. Anthony and I will be laying low for a little while.”

Pieces of carrot twirled aimlessly in John’s bowl. He had no idea what the ghoul was talking about, but it didn’t sound at all promising. He gave Hamilton a worried look, but the ghoul’s focus did not stray from his lunch. “What do you mean _caught_? Caught doing what?”

Hamilton picked up a clump of noodles and ate them, slurping lightly. John’s heart beat faster as he returned to feigning an interest in his own food. His appetite was suddenly diminishing. The ghoul dealer liked his meetings low-key, although John often wondered if the disinterested stranger routine actually brought more attention.

The ghoul exhaled loudly, as if put out by the question. “Selling prohibited items.” His tone bordered on sarcastic, as if John were supposed to know what he was talking about.

John almost snorted. “Meaning…?”

Bewilderment flashed through Hamilton’s inky eyes and additional creases developed in his scarred forehead. “Christ, kid, you haven’t been told a thing have you?” John’s lips formed a thin line. Hamilton sighed again, a softer, more defeated sound and he looked around to ensure there were no eavesdroppers. “We can sell the usual things: Mentats, Buffout, Jet, to name a few. As you know, I prefer to deal in ‘tats myself. Diamond City prohibits more… _unusual_ chems. Some of the Psycho blends. _Experimental_ chems.” He paused, holding John’s gaze. “Capiche?”

John felt his stomach sink; he had a sneaking suspicion about where the conversation was heading. He watched as Hamilton went back to prodding at his food. “Anything that comes through those gates can be attributed to Solomon. He knows the caveats.” The ghoul’s voice was terse.

Elbow still propped on the counter, John rubbed his nape. For the first time he noticed the cleanliness of Hamilton’s suit; not a patch in sight and barely a loose thread. Even the ghoul’s Oxfords, while clearly worn, carried the tell-tale sheen of recent polishing. John didn’t know what to make of the information. Solomon may have agreed to such terms, but that did not ease the growing discomfort John now felt for the entire venture. “So what’s going to happen to him?”

“He’ll do time until we pull him out.” Hamilton’s concern now appeared to centre upon catching something with his chopsticks. “I’m surprised you didn’t know.” He caught his food and dropped it in his mouth.

Turning back to his own noodle bowl, now stone cold, John realised he never asked Anthony about Chem-I-Care. How was he even supposed to ask? _Hey, just how shady is your business?_ For every solitary thing that he knew about Anthony, there was a myriad of untold stories. Did he purposefully withhold information? Or was John simply too trusting – or careless – to ask? Temporarily lost for words, John ate a small morsel of soggy, swollen noodles. He wrinkled his nose and pushed the bowl across the counter, leaving the chopsticks beside it. At least Takahashi was too busy tending to the cookpot to notice.

“You gonna eat that?”

John slid the bowl across to Hamilton. “How long ‘til he’s out?” Fingers moved towards the novel on the counter, and he toyed with the curling edges of its pages. The cover had been torn off long ago, leaving the paper exposed.

Hamilton shrugged, picking up the cold lunch and mixing the contents in with his own. Broth splashed over onto the counter, and he reached into his breast pocket for a handkerchief which he used to mop up the spillage. “A few days, at least. Can’t have it looking suspicious. Look, kid, Anthony asked me to keep you in the loop, should anything happen. Seems like you two have become close.”

 _Huh_. He was surprised – and flattered – to hear that. John kept his eyes fixed on the book, so as to not give up his astonishment to Hamilton. His concern for Solomon dulled, replaced by a sense of relief. He took comfort in learning Anthony cared more than he let on, and he bit his lip to keep a smile from overcoming his face. After a quiet moment, John thanked Hamilton and slid off his chair, taking the book with him.

“Hey.” Hamilton kept his eyes on his bowl. “I ain’t gonna stop you from chasing a good high, but be careful what you get involved in.”

-

Both Gunners fell in lifeless heaps and the barrage of gunfire ended. For a brief moment, Commonwealth Avenue was silent. John waited with bated breath, braced against the rusted hulk of a Chryslus Cherry Bomb, identifiable only by its streamlined shape, its red hue having long succumbed to rust. Voices erupted ahead as three Raiders leapt from the stairwell of the apartment opposing Shenley’s Oyster Bar. John ducked lower behind his cover and listened as the bodies were dragged from the street. The Raiders’ rough and drunken voices carried as they debated on who got what loot, and how to best display their prizes.

After the heavy slam of a door, the area went silent once more. John peered out. If it weren’t for the gruesome displays of decaying carcasses, the Raiders living behind the walls would be easily missed. Suspended bodies hung still, and the silence was cut by a sudden, garbled plea followed by a single pistol shot. After a few lengthy minutes, John got up from his knees and slowly eased out to the middle of the street. A week had passed since Hamilton had spoken with him at Power Noodles. Solomon’s store was still closed and John hadn’t heard a peep from anybody. He had grown anxious and frustrated, and running short on Mentats, decided it was time to confront the issue.

Heart pounding against his ribs, he raised his hands above his head. _Breathe._ The camp sent a chill through his spine; the Raiders enjoyed taunting him and Anthony, and passing through alone, he had nobody to watch his back should things get out of hand. His palms grew sticky. It was not too late to turn back. He could turn around now, go back to Diamond City and continue waiting indefinitely. Or…

“Stop right there, asshole.” The tell-tale crack of a rifle bolt followed the woman’s demand. The choice was made up for him.

Blood running cold, John stopped in his steps. That was not Red’s voice. From a broken window of the Oyster Bar, a Raider peered down the sights of her pipe rifle at him, her vibrant blue hair making her stand out from a distance.

“Wh-where’s Red?” John’s chest tightened, nausea swelled, his body anticipating the searing blow of her bullet.

He heard the Raider snort. “What do _you_ want with her?”

Relief unravelled in his chest upon the suggestion that she was still around. His arms stayed high over his head. “I’m… a friend of a friend.”

The Raider made an audible _ugh_. She turned to someone out of sight, telling them to go find Red. They briefly bickered amongst themselves at which point John toyed with the idea of running. Best case scenario, he would escape albeit at the cost of never being allowed to pass through again. Worst case, the bullet would be promptly fired into his brain and his body strung up on display. He opted to stay in his position on the street, remaining in the Raider’s sights. Time stretched, the midday sun beating down upon his head and shoulders aching from keeping his surrender stance. He could see her gesturing to the Raiders in the apartment complex, presumably indicating to them not to shoot. At least, not yet. In his mind, he begged for Red to hurry up.

After what felt like a humiliating eternity, he heard Red’s familiar, commanding tone. “What the hell is going on?” Her grimy, freckled face appeared through the window beside the other Raider. Upon seeing John standing awkwardly out in the street, her expression softened. John gave her a meek wave with one hand. “Lower your weapons,” she commanded to her subordinates. Her focus shifted to the apartment complex, and she signalled for hidden Raiders within to do the same.

Shoulders crumpling, John’s body relaxed. Fatigue trickled in as the adrenaline dump hit. Red disappeared from her window, her silhouette moving through the Oyster Bar before disappearing completely. Within moments, the door to the encampment was swung open, and she jogged down the stairs, combat shotgun in hand. The blue-haired Raider was close behind, but stopped in the doorway, pipe rifle low and ready. Her dark skin complemented her road leathers and the sun reflected off a series of nostril rings that had gone otherwise unnoticed.

John’s hand disappeared into his trouser pocket, fingers wrapping around a token. Having passed through empty-handed on his last trip, relying on his connection to Anthony and his chems, John came prepared. He withdrew a white Bishop that he pilfered from a box of supplies earlier that morning. Red had already proven she had a soft spot, and with nowhere near the charisma of his friend, John had to rely on his awkward yet hopeful disposition as he attempted to take advantage of the Raider’s comparatively sympathetic nature.

Red raised her brow, her impassive features almost breaking into a smirk. Coming to stand beside him, John felt even smaller. While the Raider didn’t exactly tower over him, she stood at least five-foot ten, shoulders broad from years of heavy weapons and fighting. He smiled up at her as she accepted his token.

“You won’t always win with tokens, little pawn,” she mused, rolling the chessman between her fingers and pocketing it. “I appreciate the sentiment, however. I needed a new one.”

“Sorry it ain’t mint in the box,” he told her with a wink.

The attempt to humour the Raider failed. Free hand resting upon her hip, she tilted her head in the direction of Goodneighbor. “A super mutant hive sprung up nearby. I suggest you return when you have a backup gun.”

“Shit.” John’s shoulders slumped in disappointment and he stared down the broken road. He’d only ever seen the ugly green brutes from a distance. With an old 10mm and little combat experience, he would be no match.

Red turned back to the blue-haired Raider in the doorway and gave her a sharp whistle, beckoning her presence. She jogged down to join them. “You’re in charge while I’m gone.” Red lowered her voice and jerked her thumb at a putrid corpse hanging from the furthest window. “And tell Needles to take down the rotten one, would you?”

The Raider nodded attentively. “Come back in one piece,” she replied, passing a cautionary glance over John.

“I always do,” Red reassured, lightly touching the other woman’s elbow. John could have sworn they smiled at each other, but – aware of his presence – both women maintained their rough, Raider composures.

Without another word, Red was quick to move. Dumbstruck and a little suspicious of her motives, John hastened his pace to catch up as she led the way with confidence and determination. They walked in silence along the pre-war avenue for a few elongated minutes, Red carrying her combat shotgun low.

“So where you from, John?” she asked in a causal, almost friendly tone, eyes set on the road.

John kept up pace alongside her, mildly surprised and somewhat flattered that she remembered his name. “Diamond City.”

Red snorted. “I thought as much.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” He glanced up at her.

With only a slight tilt of her head, she looked him up and down with a raised brow. “You shitting your pants when we first met was a dead giveaway.”

A grin broke across his face and he chuckled quietly, eyes wandering over their desolate surroundings. “Okay. I’ll buy that.” When he glanced up again, he noticed the faintest hint of a smile pulling at the corner of her mouth. John kicked a loose rock, watching as it rolled and bounced over fractured asphalt before finally being trapped in a thick tuft of weeds.

“What does a Diamond kid like you want with the likes of Goodneighbor anyway?” she continued.

Red certainly didn’t beat around the bush. John was appreciative of the conversation though, preferring to answer her probing questions than walk in awkward silence. As intimidating as she was, John found himself at ease. While it had briefly crossed his mind that she may indeed feed him to the super mutants that she spoke of, Red carried an air of honesty about her. He was not in the least bit fearful for his life. Nonetheless, the question came as a mild shock when he realised he still didn’t know why he kept going back. So he gave her a nonchalant shrug, deciding that an honest question deserved an honest answer. “Chems, I guess. And… my friend.”

“Anthony?”

John nodded, and they turned a corner off the main thoroughfare. For all his concern about the perceived betrayal of Solomon, John had been unable to stop thinking about their kiss. The radio silence hurt, jarring his confidence and inciting him to question, if not regret, his actions that night. Red suddenly stopped moving, John pausing a few steps ahead. He opened his mouth to ask why she stopped but closed it upon noticing the packet of Grey Tortoise in her hands, shotgun tucked under her arm. He watched her light two cigarettes and accepted the one she offered him.

“You’re missing your friend, aren’t you?” Red asked through her cigarette.

He cleared his throat. How much did she know? He did miss him, and even Goodneighbor in all of its dirty, dangerous glory. “Something like that.” John examined his cigarette. “Why are you helping me?” He asked, taking a long drag and digging the toe of his shoe into a crack underfoot. “Why not let me get eaten by the mutants?”

With a chuckle, Red carelessly waved her hand, leaving a trail smoke curling in its wake. “Because our dark-haired rogue told me that you’re in need of some hand-holding.” She readjusted her stance, resting the combat shotgun over her shoulder. “Now he can hold your hand all he wants, all I'm gonna give you is peace of mind.”

His heart skipped and John almost dropped his cigarette. He cleared his throat, trying to keep his cool, although the twitch in Red’s eyelid suggested she saw right through his pretence. “He... did?” Embarrassment burned in his cheeks.

Red pursed her lips, whether through thought or because she was trying not to laugh, was too difficult to tell. John felt his insides slip downwards as the humiliation seeped deeper into his core. Next time, he’d just stay quiet. She took another puff of her cigarette before flicking the ash. “C’mon kid, make this worth my while. What’s your business out here? Why the urgency? Why am I foregoing my duties to escort your green city ass through the ruins?”

John opened his mouth and closed it again. The cigarette burned between his fingers, the ash column steadily growing longer. He averted his eyes from the Raider to stare aimlessly at an open suitcase under a bus shelter. Without knowing how far Red was involved, he had to choose his words carefully. “We have… a mutual friend.” Hamilton’s words seemed apt. “He’s in trouble.”

“And you think Anthony can help? All the way from Goodneighbor?” Her tone bordered on derisive.

“Because…” Now he was getting frustrated. John felt like an inconvenience. “He’s involved.” He shook his head. The accusation had slipped out without any thought. “I got shit to sort out between us,” he corrected, voice flat. He flicked the cigarette away. “Look, if you’ve got better shit to do, then go home. I’m going to Goodneighbor with or without you.” As he spoke, panic took hold. Here he was, alone, getting mouthy at a shotgun-toting Raider. “But the only way I’ll get there in one piece is if you take me.” John’s voice wavered, but he kept his feet firm to the ground and eyes fixed on Red

Red actually looked perplexed by his comment. She probably wasn’t used to taking orders from _lesser_ people such as John. Or maybe somewhere inside she did care, although she had no reason to do so. Maybe there was a retainer in it for her, and John was no more than cattle. She dropped the cigarette and ground it under her boot. “Stay close, and try not to get killed.”


	12. The Gutter And The Stars

**_2277_ **

“Come out, come out, wherever you are…” a guttural voice rumbled.

Still as the dead, John sat with his back pressed against the wall, the old 10mm held tightly to his chest. Sunlight streamed into the collapsed shopfront, but the array of stone walls and fallen fixtures made for ample cover. Blood pulsed through his ears, mouth partly open, chest rising and falling with each short, shallow breath. Swallowing hard, he glanced at Red. She was squatting alongside him, eyes closed, face calm, combat shotgun poised. Heavy footsteps stopped. The super mutant grunted to himself. Suddenly there was a smash and the tinkle of broken glass. Red’s eyes snapped open. Outside the mutant wailed, infuriated. Old metal creaked and groaned as he lifted something heavy. A car? Metal clashed and crumbled, glass shattering. John choked back a gasp, mouth dry. The street fell quiet.

“Puny humans,” the mutant grumbled.

Shuffling footsteps followed. A second mutant, glass cracking under its stride. Red’s eyes narrowed as she stared intently into nothing, waiting. John clenched his jaw, scanning their surroundings for the next hiding place should the mutants wander in. She had advised against using unnecessary firepower for fear of attracting further unwanted attention.

“They have run,” the second mutant proclaimed. Another jolting _clang_ as the mutant struck metal with metal.  “Run like cowards!”

John and Red had stumbled into a gathering of three super mutants. While they were quick to dive for cover and sneak through the ruined shopfronts, the mutants saw enough of them to know that their presence remained. Two mutants remained out on the street; the third had wandered off and could have been anywhere.

“I wanted a fight,” the first mutant complained. “Why humans always like this?”

“Next time, brother,” the second reassured. The sound of back-patting followed.

Red’s face almost broke into a grimace, and she exchanged a derisive glance with John. It was clear she wasn’t pleased with the delay, or with the prospect of fighting the big green brutes, but she remained patient nonetheless. They continued to wait in silence, listening as the mutants’ footsteps faded into the distance. Red brought her index finger up to her lips. John nodded in understanding, heart still racing. He didn’t know how much longer they waited for after that, but it felt like an eternity. By the time Red gave the okay to move again, his legs had cramped, and he had to take a few moments to shake and stretch them out.

They wound their way through the desolate streets until the tell-tale indication of Goodneighbor came into view. From the narrow street littered with toppled vehicles and crumpled buildings, the tower of the Old State House was visible. Discoloured white against a clear blue sky, its presence was reassuring. Red clambered atop a fallen truck that barricaded the road, and stood waiting for John to join her. Foot resting upon the degraded rubber tyre as he prepared to hoist himself up, hasty footsteps came at them from behind. Light and fast, they could only belong to an animal. John spun around as a rabid mutt charged at him.

“Shit!” He scrabbled, hands slipping over the corroded metal. The crack of Red’s shotgun sent an ear-splitting _boom_ that resonated through the city ruins. Warm blood splattered over the back of his legs, as John pulled himself up onto the bonnet of the truck. Sitting for a moment, he looked at the damage done to his trousers. They were a mess of blood and chunks of viscera, and somehow, he couldn’t help but laugh to himself. Out of all the people in the Commonwealth to guide him safely through Boston, it was a Raider. And she’d just stopped him from becoming dog food. “You know what Red?” he began, breathless and looking up at the woman standing beside him. “I think this is the beginning of a beautiful friendship.”

She rolled her eyes and turned away to keep moving.

-

“You on your rag or somethin’?” The weaselly guard who particularly enjoyed taunting John laughed, his cronies following suit. “C’mon kid. Arms up.”

John complied. His arms were barely raised when the guard began patting him down with rough enthusiasm. “Got a hard-on for me huh?” John muttered under his breath, eyes fixed to the sky as his body was slapped and shaken.

“The fuck you say?” The goon straightened up, getting in close to John’s face.

He raised his voice. “I said good luck finding anything.” Sniggering erupted from the other goons.

“I oughta beat you senseless.” The guard raised his fist. It was red, fresh scars developing in disfigured loops and striations. Burn scars, from the fire. John smirked. So the bastard did get his hands dirty after all. “But my punchin’ arm is outta action for a little while.”

“C’mon, Frankie. Save that anger for the fight tonight,” one of the goons suggested, voice weary. “Too hungover for this shit.”

John dropped his arms, holding Frankie’s gaze and trying not to smirk too much. The guard jerked his head, allowing him entry into the town. Relieved that he was still allowed to keep the 10mm and knife in spite of dangerously running his mouth, John ventured towards Daisy’s Discounts in hopes of finding new pants.

Once inside the little store, he was greeted by a ghoul in a faded tan suit and chestnut hair swept into a low bun. For somebody living in the likes of Goodneighbor, she had a surprisingly welcoming face, inky eyes warm and friendly. She leaned her forearms upon the wooden counter. “Name’s Daisy. Seen you out there with ol’ Frankie before,” she told him, voice gravelly. “Bastard suffers from short man syndrome.”

John chuckled, sinking his hands into his pockets. “Got that right,” he said, blowing air through his cheeks.

“Listen kid, he roughs you up too much, let me know. He and I got a history.” She straightened up, brushing off her hands. “Now. New pants? Can’t have you walkin’ about the town lookin’ as though you shanked someone. I think I got somethin’ that’ll fit. You can change out the back.”

-

Littered with the still bodies of sleeping and unconscious drifters, the top floor of the warehouse was quiet. Oil lanterns provided light to the darker corners, where people read magazines or injected themselves with their chem of choice. The drifters on the top floor remained mostly the same each time John visited. He would have liked to think that with familiarity came community, but the only thing the camps had in common was the space they shared. While camps would warn each other should Vic’s boys be on the prowl, or trade food and chems, they mostly stuck to themselves. Rivalries would often flare up though; the result of too many people crammed into the one space was bound to cause tension. Stolen clothing, lost chems, and fights over bedding were common.

John wound his way through the camps as he headed to the back corner. He rest his hand on an old dryer that made up part of the partition, curls of rust collapsing under his palm. Anthony, dressed in torn jeans and a black t-shirt, sat on a mattress, back against the mustard yellow couch, head tipped back onto the cushion with his arm slung over his eyes. A cracked plastic ashtray sat beside him, cigarette burning to a stub. A woman was asleep on the couch, curled up, back facing out. Her long dark braid suggested it was Laura. Used hypodermics filled a bottle on the side table while an open magazine lay beside Anthony.

Lowering himself to his knees upon the mattress, John approached. Startled by his presence, Anthony jumped, balling his fist and pushing himself away from the couch as he prepared for a fight. “Shit,” he breathed, upon recognising John. “Don’t creep up like that.” He settled back down into a seated position. Laura remained unperturbed.

“Shouldn’t you be awake?” John asked, surprised to see his shoes hadn’t been stolen.

Anthony rubbed his glazed eyes. “I am awake. Fuck. Brother, if I knew you were coming I’d have saved some ‘Tripper or something.” He gestured for John to sit beside him, limp wrist flopping under whatever chem cocktail he had indulged in.

“She alright?” Not moving from his position, John nodded to Laura, who remained still. He was pretty sure he could see the rise and fall of her chest…

Reaching up, Anthony slapped her hip with the back of his hand. Laura let out an irritated, whiny groan and continued to lie motionless. “Rough comedown.” He shrugged. “C’mon, sit,” he said, motioning for John to join him, an inviting smile tugging at his lips. “Damn. Am I happy to see you. What brings you here?”

“Look.” John rubbed the back of his neck and complied, dropping himself onto the mattress beside Anthony’s outstretched legs. It felt like he had a million-and-one things he wanted to say. “I gotta ask… Solomon. I thought he’d be out by now. Least… that’s what Ham said.”

The other man nodded, silent, eyes darting around as he deliberated John’s concern. “Yeah. John…” He scratched at his head, grasping at handfuls of loose, dark hair. “Remember how I owed those Raiders a bunch of chems?” John nodded. “So, that cost a lot of caps. We’re working on it…” He kept his eyes low, as if ashamed.

“So… what, you didn’t plan for something like this?” John was a little shocked. “Solomon is just a patsy to you?”

“That’s easy for you to say, with your comfortable Diamond City life,” Anthony replied, eyes narrowing. If it weren’t for glassy eyes and dilated pupils, he would almost appear sober. “And no. Christ, is that how you think of me? Sol and I have known each other for years. I wanted to expand. He wanted out of Goodneighbor. He’s happy so long as he’s high.” He pinched at the bridge of his nose, looking momentarily pained. “Sorry. Bad Daddy-O trip. Still trying to stop hearing colours.”

“I doubt he’s happy in jail.” John kept his voice firm but low.

Anthony inhaled sharply through his nose. “It’s part of the deal. Either way he’s got a roof over his head. C’mon brother. Don’t make me feel worse about this.”

Pinching at the bridge of his nose, John tried to read between the lines, mind racing. “This is on you.”

“You don’t think I don’t know that already?” he snapped, both wrists flicking outwards. John shot him a disgruntled look, causing him to back down, momentarily closing his eyes and holding both hands by his chest, palms out. “I’m not gonna let him down. Promise,” Anthony replied calmly.

There it was again. That feeling of being an idiot, only now it came hand-in-hand with feeling like he was just being too damn nosey. Maybe none of this was any of his business, but he had to know what kind of people he was involved with. Especially if he were to be _involved_ with one of them. John rubbed at his jaw with a heavily exhalation, catching his chin between his thumb and fingers as he pondered on his response. “Okay,” he said, letting go of his chin and allowing his hand to sink into his lap. “Just tell me you’re not an asshole.”

“I’m not an asshole.” Anthony crossed his chest, but a sly grin broke out across his face. “Much.” John chuckled and whacked his leg with the back of his hand. “So, I see you made it here in one piece.” Anthony turned away, looking down into his ashtray. Disappointment swept over his face upon learning that his cigarette had been reduced to little more than a filter.

“Yes, well… I had a little help from Red.” John gave him a one-sided smile.

Flashing his teeth, Anthony replied, “I hope she wasn’t too mean to you.”

“I think she only wanted to shoot me twice.” The grin broadened. He watched Anthony fish for cigarettes in his pockets.

“I think she wants to shoot everyone.” Placing two cigarettes in his mouth, he lit both before plucking one out and passing it over.

Taking a long, leisurely draw on the cigarette, John was grateful for the nicotine. The buzz and the swirling, hypnotic smoke quelled his nerves. After years of being captivated by Anthony’s rough, good looks and charming demeanour, here he was: confined to a subspace of couches and bedding, feeling as if he were thirteen and about to ask a classmate on a date. He wasn’t like Liam, game and happy and secure enough in his gangly awkwardness to approach Emily. Navigating his way through adolescence, John had received some flak for being more interested in books than he was in boys or girls. Truth be told, nobody could offer what Anthony offered: a willingness to explore, a shared love of reading, and the freedom to be himself, just as he is. If Anthony were holed up here in Goodneighbor for longer, John might not have this private opportunity again. Or, as private as the space could be given Laura and the other junkies surrounding them.

“Hey, I didn’t just come to talk about Solomon,” he began. Anthony lifted his eyes from his cigarette at the comment. John drew a breath. “What’s happening? With us.” He took a hasty puff, eyes darting downwards to focus on a stain in the mattress. The words were out now. All he could do was wait for the response.

Anthony took a drag, before setting the cigarette down in the ashtray. “I guess that depends on what you want to have happen,” he said through a mouthful of smoke. “ _I_ like you...” Scooting in closer, he brushed back a piece of John’s hair that had come loose from his ponytail. The light touch made him shiver, and John turned away, heart racing.

“I wasn’t sure… sometimes you’re hard to read…” John breathed, lips beginning to tingle. Anthony leaned over and took the cigarette still burning between his fingers. He set it aside in the ashtray before turning back, reaching up to run the backs of his fingers along John’s jawline.

“Because y’know… people just set buildings on fire for the fun of it,” he teased, fingers snaking their way to the back of John’s neck. “I’ve been thinking about that night.”

John swallowed, nodding. “Me too…”

John wasn’t sure if he moved in or if Anthony had pulled him. Maybe they’d both moved at the same time. Through smiles, their lips met, teeth clashing for a moment until both men relaxed into a mutually satisfying pace. As John sank into the warmth and the slightly abrasive stubble, a weight lifted from him. Relief and pleasure flushed through his core. Anthony’s hand slipped from the back of his neck, sliding down his shoulder until he found his waist, pulling him in closer where he kissed him with deepened fervour. If there were etiquette involved in this, John ignored it, allowing his hands to roam freely across Anthony’s torso. Fingertips found the hem of Anthony’s shirt and worked their way underneath, where they drew mindless patterns over the hot skin of his abdomen. He was wonderfully responsive to touch, each shiver and moan encouraging John to continue. Anthony broke away, tracing kisses along John’s jawline until he reached his neck, where he teased him with lips and teeth. John’s felt as though he were on fire, and every nip and suck over the delicate skin of his neck made his spine tingle.

At last, Anthony broke away, inhaling heavily, hand still firmly planted on John’s waist. His eyes weren’t so glassy now, but his pupils remained dilated, a likely mixture of lingering chems and fresh arousal. “You wanna get high?” He flashed a wicked grin.

 _Perfect._ John smiled back.


	13. Everything In Its Place

**_2277_ **

The headache behind John’s eyes was diminishing with every pulse. Chalk coated his palate, the taste of saccharine orange thick in his throat. The flavour was stronger, sicklier, and surprisingly more artificial compared to the Berry Mentats. But a ‘Tat was a ‘Tat. Why not try them all? John was leaning into the arm of Solomon’s couch, an incandescent bulb flickering overhead. Cushions of varied shapes and sizes lines the skirting boards, a tattered azure drape hung from the wall, and melted candles and magazines were scattered throughout. Sitting on the floor at his coffee table, Solomon carefully prepared a box of Sugar Bombs. The dealer’s usual brown paper bag was too conspicuous for John to carry about. Much easier to hide the goods in cereal boxes, which also carried the added bonus of immediate alleviation of the munchies.

“You want some Ultrajet?” Solomon asked, entranced by a roll of duct tape. He picked at it slowly with a broken nail, blonde brows creasing deeper in his struggle to unstick the end. Light green bruising stained his right cheekbone. “Got a fresh batch this morning.”

Hands deep in his pockets, John rolled two loose Mentats around between his thumb and forefinger as he waited. “What’s the difference?”

“Ohh.” Solomon set the roll of tape down amongst the rest of the drug paraphernalia on the chipped table. He raised his hands close to his temples, palms out, as if his mind had just been blown. “Man. You gotta try it. It’s like Jet… but, like… _ultra_. Longer lasting. Kicks like a…” he trailed off, lowering his hands as he struggled to come up with a comparative animal. “Like a molerat. I’ll give you one for sixty caps but I can’t go any lower. Like, I know you’re a friend, but this is a business.”

The offer was tempting, but John waved his hand and shook his head. Next time, he figured.

“Alright, man. Your loss.” The dealer paused, momentarily staring at the contents of his coffee table having clearly forgotten what he was doing. It was difficult to tell how shaken up the dealer was from his two weeks in jail; the man was perpetually high, living on a plane of bright colours, free ideas, and music inaudible to anyone else. Perhaps that was how he could allow life’s curveballs to roll so easily from his shoulders.

“Don’t worry about the tape,” John said. He was only going to tear open the box once home and take a hit anyway.

Solomon picked up the cereal box, lightly shaking the contents and listening with intent. “You sure? I know these bombs can go off any moment.”

“Definitely sure,” John replied with a chuckle and a wink.

“Easier access?” Solomon nodded, face falling serious. “I feel that.” He slowly rose from the floor, hands on the coffee table for support. Standing on his feet, his body swayed and he rubbed his forehead with the back of his hand.

“Hey… it’s good to have you back.” John tipped his chin towards Solomon as he withdrew his hands from his pockets, lightly crossing his arms.

“Shit. Its real good to be back y’know.” Solomon made grand gestures with his hands, fingers spread taut. “Breeze on my face. Chems in my hand. Feels real good.” Picking up the cereal box, Solomon approached, eyes glassy and pupils tightly constricted. Med-X, and likely something else thrown into the mix. “Now here you go, enjoy it in good health.”

John accepted, reaching out to grip the dealer’s shoulder with his other hand. “Thanks. And I hope everything is okay.”

“Ahh. You know. Gotta take one for the team.” Solomon reciprocated the shoulder grab, although it was more of a weak slap thanks to the chems in his bloodstream.

-

Sunlight glittered from the Charles River in a dazzling display that could only be made more beautiful by a hit of Jet. Resting against the oxidised railing, John sank deeper into his forearms, squinting out upon the water through his sunglasses. Nearby in the bascule bridge, the wreck of an old tugboat sat trapped between the leaves. Supposedly home to a Raider camp, the tug was little more than a quiet fixture in the backdrop. A soft breeze washed over him, rustling the bare branches of the trees standing from the banks. It brought with it an unusual scent: mild, organic flotsam, and floating garbage. Beside him, Emily exhaled loudly, slowly. He glanced across at her. She stood rigid, a loose bouquet of tato flowers held tightly in her hands. Periwinkle petals spilt out over her fingers, lifting lightly in the wind. The sunlit water reflected from her large, round sunglasses. Pride swelled within John; it was her first foray outside of Diamond City. It took some convincing, but curiosity got the better of her in the end. Despite her dread, she had remained cool and collected. It probably helped that they weren’t out here for themselves. John straightened up, reaching out to the flowers with both hands. Emily passed half of them over and they both turned back to face the river in silence, shoulders brushing.

“The water is really pretty,” she confessed quietly. Her comment struck a chord within him; Emily had spent her entire life behind green walls. She had never seen the trees and she had never seen the water. The pond that made up the city’s water supply didn’t count.

“Worth the trip out here?” he asked with a gentle smirk. The narrow leaves prickled into his palm and he readjusted his grip. Standing by the river brought back memories of his childhood, of the fish he caught in the afternoon sun.

“I just…” she paused and looked down at her tato flowers, apparently reconsidering her words. She ran a finger over a thick petal. “He would have liked it out here.” Emily nodded, concreting her conclusion. Without another word, she threw her arms outwards to the water, releasing the flowers. “Happy birthday, Liam... I wish you could see this,” she announced to the river, choking back a small cry.

John immediately did the same. Purple blooms spiralled downwards, landing so softly they barely broke the surface tension. “Happy birthday… brother.” He reached into his pocket for the loose Mentats he carried around, removing one and flicking it out into the river where it landed with a wet _plop_. Emily leaned against John, both hands coming to rest on his forearm as she sucked in a deep breath. He put his free hand over hers and watched the flowers bob and twirl with the rhythmic lapping of the water. A lump formed in his throat and his chest tightened. So much had happened since Liam’s freak accident; John found himself gloriously caught in a surreal whirlwind of new experiences that he realised he wasn’t even sure when he last cried for his friend. The lump in his throat grew bigger and he choked, tears welling in his eyes. Squeezing his eyes shut, hot tears spilled over and down onto his cheeks. Emily turned into him and he found himself doing the same until they were caught in each other’s embrace. They stood for a long time, sobbing quietly, until faint gunfire broke out from the other side of the river.

“Okay.” Emily pulled away, wiping her face with her sleeve. “Take me home before I get eaten or something.”

John chuckled and sniffed, wiping his eyes under his glasses. “You know Liam would’ve stayed longer,” he teased, nose still running.

“And my point still would have remained,” she replied, voice wavering somewhere between laughter and tears. The oversized sunglasses may have hidden half her face, but John knew underneath she was struggling to maintain composure. Emily snuffled and took a final look back out over the river. “Thanks for suggesting this, John. It’s kind of nice see the other side.”

“Think you’ll come out again?” John put his arm over her shoulders and they turned away, heading to the stairs to take them off the esplanade and up to the road leading to Diamond City.

“I don’t even know,” Emily said, sounding calmer albeit still nasal. As they ascended the stairs, she looked around at the collapsing buildings and array of tables and chairs forgotten in time. Overhead, a raven flew down to land upon the tattered orange drapes dangling from the awning of a corner building. “It’s just so _depressing_.” She shifted, slipping her arm around his waist and lowering her sights to the road as they rounded the corner.

John nodded, more so in acknowledgment than agreement. He didn’t try to argue against her comment; indeed, there was something depressing about the monotonous landscape of collapsed concrete and rusty cars. Not to mention the ever-present dangers lurking within, both human and non. He was simply grateful that Emily had been willing to share in this moment to celebrate their friend.

They continued walking the short distance along the thoroughfare until they reached the city perimeter. Corroded green roller doors to their left advertised the settlement and its protective wall in white paint in desperate need of a touch-up. A turret chugged ahead while a lone guard patrolled the street, pipe rifle on the ready. Emily stopped alongside an empty guard tower made of corrugated tin and rotting wood, removing her arm from around him. “Hey, John?” Her nose and cheeks were still flushed a light red. “I just wanna say… I’m sorry for all the times I was nasty to you, especially in school. You’re a good person, and friend. I appreciate everything we have. I just want you to know that.”

“It took you that long to realise that?” John cracked a grin at her, waggling his brows.

She gave him a friendly slap with the back of her hand before hooking her elbow through his. “So. Tell me about your boyfriend,” she teased, sniffing, as they resumed their walk.

-

The afternoon drew to a close. Bunker Hill, cast in gold under the late sun, had been growing steadily more quiet. Settlers and wanderers alike dispersed, returning to their homes or venturing back out into the wastes. The few caravans that lingered did so out of respite on the last stop of the day’s journey. Two Raiders strolled through the central marketplace, looking down their noses upon the displayed wares. Vendors returned their gaze with watchful eyes, hands hovering over their weapon of choice. Rumours abound that the settlement had long ago started paying off the Raiders in return for security, and while Bunker Hill had not had a super mutant attack in years, there was a palpable tension between the wandering Raiders and the vendors.

Humoured by the sight of a caravan worker attempting to steer their roaming brahmin away from the market’s major entrance, John threw a Berry Mentat in the air, catching it in his mouth. He turned back to the counter he was standing in front of, leaning into one hand and crossing his ankles. Beside him, Anthony perused an impressive collection of weapons and modifications as the skinny, eccentric vendor watched in delight. John watched her intently, trying to remember where he’d seen her before.

“Clean, dirty, you name it - I’ll hook you up with something that’ll make you cream!” The vendor cackled, slapping her bony hands together before bending down and hoisting up a box of frag grenades. “And I got some o’ these in case you feel like blowing someone up into teeny tiny little pieces,” she added, holding her thumb and forefinger apart. She flashed her rotten teeth in a wicked grin.

“Maybe next time, Cricket. I want to know more about this,” Anthony picked up a sleek, black scope.

“Sneaky type, huh? Enjoy making heads pop like red confetti? It’ll get you by, but that ain’t window sniping shit if that’s what you’re after.” Cricket scratched at her inner elbow through her threadbare grey sleeve, bloodshot eyes darting between her weapons and her customers.

“Sounds fine to me,” he replied, removing his rifle from his shoulder.

Cricket turned her attention to John. “What about you, cutie? You look like the bloody type. Got some nice things that will make the bodies go _boom_. Got some slashers too if you like it up close.”

John shook his head, amused by her bloodthirsty temperament. As the Mentat took effect in his head, he recalled where he’d seen her before: Goodneighbor. She liked to sit in the storefront beside Daisy’s shop, screaming and rambling to anyone that would listen. Having never paid her much attention, it occurred to him that her ramblings may have been a sales pitch. He turned back to Anthony, whose hands worked quickly and meticulously to affix the scope to his rifle. “Won’t that get stolen?” John asked, referring to Goodneighbor’s smarmy gatekeepers.

Aiming the rifle upwards to the shabby cloth comprising the market’s cover, he peered down the newly-attached scope. “Don’t ruin this for me,” he whined in jest. John apologised through a chuckle, and shifted the weight in his feet, resting both hands on his hips. Anthony lowered the weapon, holding it on display. “You think Beatrice likes it?”

“I think she’d like a new ass first,” he teased, referring to the rifle’s worn stock.

He almost looked offended at the suggestion. “That’s _original_. Got my shoulder groove and everything.” He turned his shoulder in mock offence, stroking the rifle. “Don’t listen to him B. Your ass is perfect.” Anthony set the weapon back down on the counter and started searching for caps in the dusty bag hanging from his shoulder. Cricket waited, incapable of standing still as she fidgeted with her sleeves, wiping her hands, her nose, head jerking side to side as she sussed out passers-by.

“Is your rifle’s name _really_ Beatrice?” John asked, curious about the origin.

“Why? You don’t like it?” Anthony dropped a fistful of caps on the counter. “Hey, will you accept partial payment in Jet?” he asked Cricket. John knew he wasn’t short on caps; he had quickly learnt that if Anthony could trade his way through a situation then he would. Chems bought safe routes, coveted items, and favours. Caps were reserved for food, alcohol, and beds.

She snorted. “Bloodshed comes at a cost. A high cost. I’m talking towers of caps that _reach_ to the sky! I can get Jet from any asshole that comes through these gates. You wanna trade, you’re gonna have to _really_ make me weak at the knees.”

John snickered at her comment, glancing down at his feet in an attempt to hide it.

“You drive a hard bargain…” Anthony sifted through the contents of his bag until he produced a syringe containing light purple fluid, similar to Med-X. Her red eyes widened upon sighting the chem. “Calmex sweet enough?”

“That’s what I’m talking about!” She accepted the chem, holding it carefully in her hands as if it were an explosive ready to go off with the slightest bump. “Shoot wisely and often,” she advised, curling her fingers over the syringe and using the other hand to scoop the caps inwards.

John straightened up from his hunched stance over the counter as Anthony slung Beatrice over his shoulder. “What was that you just gave her?” he asked, taking his hand as they wound their way through the market.

“A really rare, really expensive chem. Beatrice better appreciate the things I do for her.” Anthony smiled and pulled John in closer.

“I’m sure she loves everything you do.” John nudged him with his shoulder. “So, don’t most folk call their guns things like... _Justice_? Or _Vengeance_?” He made grand gestures with his free hand, emphasizing each name.

Anthony dropped his head back in laughter. “Touché, brother.” He steered John out of the market’s west entrance, a narrow stone platform between the old memorial and a warped, spiked fence. “Beatrice sent Virgil to guide Dante through Hell.” He paused at a break in the fence, gesturing for John to pass through first. The drop from the walkway was a few inches at most, and when Anthony joined him in the open street of Bunker Hill, he jabbed his thumb towards the bar. “Later, she guided him through Heaven.”

“You don’t really believe in all that, do you?” John asked, brows creasing in the middle as they crossed the short distance to the bar. “All that heaven and hell bullshit?” He slid onto a barstool, the plastic cushion long flattened leaving little more than firm, lumpy material to sit on.

With a snort, Anthony sat on the stool beside him. “No, but I love a good story.” He gestured to the bartender. “Two of whatever is the least nasty,” he requested before turning back to John. “She was my dad’s, but he never gave her a name. How rude, y’know? To not give credit to the one thing that keeps your ass alive for so long.”

“I was under the impression you didn’t like your dad much.” John lifted his jacket, fishing a packet of cigarettes out of the inner breast pocket and holding it on offer.

“I didn’t. But I liked his gun.” Anthony slipped a cigarette out of the box and John sparked his lighter to life, lighting the cigarette for him. Anthony’s hand brushed over his to cup the flame, likely out of habit given the windless day.

The bartender set down two shots of brown liquor. “What happened to him?” John asked, lighting his own smoke and taking a long drag. Nicotine was no substitute for Jet, but damn was the short buzz nice.

Anthony picked up his shot, swirling it around in the dirty glass as his cigarette smouldered between the same fingers. “He got greedy. Got what he deserved. So!” Swivelling in his chair, the plastic and old bearings squeaking under his weight, he raised his glass. “What shall we toast to?”

The abrupt change of topic came as a surprise, but Anthony was as laidback as he always was. John picked up his own shot, the glassware chipped and smeared in an array of fingerprints. He considered their toast; the last toast he made was to his brother - something work-related no doubt. “To Beatrice’s new look,” he suggested.

A nod. “May she not get stolen by assholes in bad suits.”

They clinked glasses and downed their shots. Harsh liquor burnt cold in John’s throat. His stomach rolled, the burn spreading and warming through his core. He sat still, fist balled around the glass and pressed against his lips. “Holy shit,” he rasped, eyes beginning to water.

“Still better than the Line,” Anthony choked. John nodded in agreeance and set his glass back down. Another drag on his smoke, the old tobacco satiating the tingle in his mouth.

The bartender, a tall, portly man with a receding hairline, returned, bottle in hand. A grimy cloth was draped over his shoulder. John and Anthony exchanged agreeable looks, and John indicated for another round. The glasses were promptly refilled, liquor splashing over the rims. Three caravan workers came to stand beside Anthony. He dragged his stool in closer before they downed their second shots and laughing over superstitious rumours they’d heard surrounding a quarry further north.

It wasn’t long until the sun disappeared beyond the horizon leaving Bunker Hill shrouded in shadows. Bulbs scattered over the back wall and awning kept the open-air bar illuminated in warm, off-yellow light. With the evening progressing and having little else to do, the mass of patrons had thickened. Vendors, caravan workers and travellers settled in to relax and spend their hard-earned caps. _Butcher Pete_ streamed in the background, and John, now warm and light-headed, was engaged with caravan worker named Bill, whose route took him through the Cambridge and Weston regions. Bill entertained him with stories of feral ghouls and albino deathclaws, stories that John was sure were embellished but made him laugh nonetheless. Anthony occasionally chimed in, but his attention span pulled him between people, including Cricket. She had come to the bar glassy-eyed and slurring, crawling over Anthony in an attempt to sweet-talk her way into getting another hit of Calmex. She refused to believe that he didn’t have any more, and Anthony played along with her flirting before placating her with a dose of Med-X.

They found themselves staying until the patrons thinned out and the bartender called for last drinks. Anthony was quick to rent the last room, an act that incited anger from another man. He approached them with balled fists, irrational and clearly ready to fight over the accommodation.

“I worked my ass off all day and you just cut in!” he bellowed, face red as he stumbled closer.

Anthony laughed at him. “Shouldn’t have been so slow!” Inhibitions lost, John laughed along with Anthony, and they hung on to each other’s arms as they made their way towards the rickety stairs that led up to the rooms.

“Fuck you both!”

The bartender – now wielding a shotgun – slammed his fist on the counter. “Take it elsewhere,” he warned.

Laughing some more, John and Anthony scurried up the stairs, leaving the other man to his own devices. They clutched onto each other as they moved along the narrow walkway above the bar to the last shack. The shanty walls were a patchwork of metal, cloth, and wood, and in the dark it was obvious that duct tape was holding parts of the walls together. Without a proper door, a flimsy floral curtain was all that separated the interior from the rest of Bunker Hill. Stepping through into the tiny space revealed a single mattress, a small, lopsided corner table, and a window looking out over the wastes. At least the window curtain was made of the same tattered material as that covering the door.

John felt Anthony’s arms slip around his waist, pulling back into a tight hug. “Looks like we have to snuggle for warmth,” Anthony said with a broad smile, nuzzling into his neck.

“Not if you snore,” John replied as he turned around to face him, hands making their way up to his shoulders.

“Promise I won’t,” he teased, hands moving inside John’s jacket and grasping at the material of his shirt.

Their mouths caught and John’s fingers wound their way through Anthony’s loose hair. The world spun in a haze of alcohol and wet kisses as they stumbled over each other’s feet, vying for control over the other. He felt Anthony tugging his jacket from his shoulders and he lowered his arms, taking over to drop his jacket to the floor. Their kiss broke. Blood pounded through John’s ears as he watched Anthony drop his bag, rifle and coat. The coat was barely past his forearms before John reached out, grabbing him by the belt and pulling him close. Crumbled upon the floor, Anthony kicked the coat away as he cupped John’s face with rough hands and pushed him against the wall. The wall creaked and groaned against their movement, startling them both.

“Woops,” Anthony breathed, grinning wickedly, and he grabbed John by the wrists, pulling him away from the wall and back to the mattress. He collapsed into it, dragging John down to join him. John straddled his lap, the floorboards below the mattress creaking just as loudly as the wall. “Ha! Shit!” Anthony clutched at his waist with one hand, the other settling upon John’s thigh.

“We’re gonna fuckin’ fall through,” John said through a stifled giggle, diving in to bite at his neck.

Anthony exhaled heavily, gasping under John’s teeth and writhing below him. “Then we better be careful,” he husked, hand running up his thigh and under his shirt. Fingertips raked over John’s skin, causing his flesh to tingle, the sensation culminating in his spine in thick cords of white heat. Anthony knew exactly where to touch him and how.

John’s fingers worked their way to the collar of Anthony’s t-shirt, tugging it down so that his mouth could find the soft hollow of his collarbone. He nibbled and sucked on the delicate, slightly salty skin before working back up to Anthony’s jaw, pulse bounding against his lips. John found his earlobe, seizing it lightly between his teeth. He jerked underneath him, breath hitching as he pulled John’s hips down further. _Jackpot_. As his tongue swirled over the sensitive ridges of his ear, Anthony buried his face deeper into John’s neck, both hands stroking over his hips and cupping his ass.

Pulling away from his ear, John went back to his mouth, kissing him hard. Anthony’s hands knotted in the back of John’s shirt, tugging it up and off his body. Goosebumps erupted over his skin under the fresh night air, but his core ran hot. He grappled with Anthony’s shirt, cotton snapping as he pulled it over his head. They kissed hungrily, fervently. John’s lips were beginning to sting as saliva intermingled with abrasive stubble. His hands ran over the firm swell of muscles in his shoulders; Anthony was lean but defined, with a trail of hair running along his midline before flourishing out over his upper chest like a tree in bloom.

Heart pounding into his ribs, the heat in John’s core was spreading, seeping through his nether regions and down his thighs. Anthony’s hand ran down to cup and stroke his length through his pants, each rolling movement eliciting an electrifying pulse that made him moan and quiver. Finally, Anthony bounced his hips, flipping John over onto the mattress. Floorboards groaned under the sudden movement and a mattress spring jabbed into John’s lower ribs. He closed his eyes, hissing through his teeth as Anthony’s tongue swirled over a nipple.

“Hate to think of how many others have fucked on this mattress before us.” Anthony giggled into his chest.

John erupted into laughter, clasping his hand momentarily over his mouth to quiet himself before smacking Anthony’s shoulder. “Way to kill the mood,” he said, snorting. The brief interlude brought him back into reality. The world was still drunkenly tilting around him, the stars outside flickering in and out of view from behind the floral curtain as John’s head lolled from side to side.

Teeth pinching over the thin skin of his chest, Anthony fumbled with John’s belt, at last freeing him from the confines of his trousers. “Mm, don’t worry, I can fix that,” he teased, lips brushing down his abdomen.

Winding his fingers through Anthony’s thick hair, John licked his lips, swallowing hard. His ears pulsed and his stomach rolled, body writhing. All he could muster was a breathless _oh fuck_ when Anthony took him into his mouth.


	14. Good, Good Neighbours

**_2278_ **

Petrichor and wet concrete lingered thick in the air. Grey clouds reflected from puddles while the rest of the desolate street carried the dark sheen of recent rain. Ahead, a feral ghoul reached for freedom, trapped under the dead weight of a car. It groaned and cried, desperate, guttural sounds that made John’s spine tingle as he listened to it closely. The pitiful creature reminded him of the zombies in pre-war fiction, so much so that he wondered if the existence of ghouls and their feral counterparts stretched back further than recent history.

 _It would kill you if it had the chance_. John raised his pistol and squinted intently down the sight. Inhale, exhale. The ghoul’s withered hand moved in and out of focus, lifeless eyes staring out into nothing, mouth twisted in a permanent snarl. He inhaled, squeezed the trigger, feeling the recoil in his arm. On the exhale, John lowered the weapon, squinting again to view the bloody stump waving furiously in the air. The feral’s cries heightened as it slammed its forearm onto the pavement, dark blood smearing and splattering upon impact.

“Most folk use cans for target practice.”

John spun around on his heels upon hearing the deep, familiar voice. Valentine stood a short distance ahead on the narrow road, one hand in his coat pocket, the other bringing a cigarette up to his ruined mouth. His coat hung heavily from his shoulders, weighed down from the rain. The cigarette tip smouldered a vibrant orange against the dank grey backdrop.

“Most targets don’t sit still,” John replied, checking the weapon’s magazine, ignoring the spluttering cries from the feral down the street.

Valentine approached, Oxfords grinding into the wet road under each step. “And that poor bastard isn’t sitting still enough for you?” Disappointment clung in his voice. Valentine flicked the cigarette away, it sparked in a brief whirlwind before extinguishing in a puddle.

Clenching his jaw, John had the distinct feeling he was about to receive a lesson in morality. Turning back to the feral, he raised the pistol again. Focussing on his breath and desperately hoping to hit his target for fear of looking incompetent, he squeezed the trigger again. The bullet bored right through the feral’s wasted skull. It collapsed, blood pooling over the wet asphalt. Amidst the relief that flooded him, satisfaction ignited. John gave Valentine a smug look.

“Yep. You sure showed him,” the synth replied with a hint of sarcasm.

John shot him a dirty look as he holstered his weapon and removed a cigarette and lighter from his back pocket. He didn’t need a lecture on what she should or should not be shooting. He needed to practice, and if practice involved a trapped enemy, then so be it. Better than being in the line of fire of a free enemy. “So why you lurking about?” John asked, lighting the cigarette with a short puff.

“Aside from enjoying long walks in the rain? Looking for you.” Turning his head slightly, John raised his brow, taking a long drag as he waited for the synth to continue. “Your brother tried to hire me. Wanted me to follow you ‘round, find out what kind of company you keep. What chems you’re getting blacked out on.” It took a moment for the detective’s words to sink in. John stood dumbfounded, stomach dropping through his feet and into the cold wet ground below. The cigarette sat between his lips, fingers still poised either side of it. “I don’t know about you kid, but I trust your brother as far as I can throw him.”

Removing the cigarette, John stood mouth agape. Words were lost on him as he struggled to think of what Guy was attempting to pull. His hand trembled. “Serious? Why?”

Valentine raised his hands from his pockets, holding them palms out. “It’s no secret that he’s concerned about his reputation… or where he’s trying to go for that matter. Probably trying to clean his _dirty laundry_.”

Speechless and suddenly feeling hurt and betrayed, John chewed his lip. Only Guy would sniff out the faintest hint of a bad egg in order to turn it into something to be ashamed of. “Thanks,” he murmured, eyes low, rolling the cigarette between his fingers. “I guess you better get back to your walk then.”

Valentine tipped his hat, motioning to leave. “I’m sure I’ll see you around.”

“Hey,” John stopped him. “Why didn’t you take the job?”

The question was met by an affronted look. For an old, battered synth with part of his jaw missing, the detective’s face was unsettlingly human, capable of the full range of expression. “I’m a detective, not a voyeur.”

John didn’t say anything, he merely dropped his eyes back to the cigarette between his fingers. He listened to the synth’s soft footsteps and waited, smoke curling in tight rings. He looked up in time to watch Valentine approach a crossroad, turning a corner and disappearing into the wasted city. John remained motionless, smoking his cigarette down to a stub in an attempt to keep his simmering anger at bay. Inhaling sharply, cold air stinging his nasal passages, his eyes fixed upon the dead ghoul ahead. Flicking away the stub, John strode over, taking long steps and planting his feet firmly into the ground. On his approach, he pulled out the pistol and emptied the magazine into the carcass. It jerked and bled with every shot. Standing before it, John closed his eyes. _Don’t let Guy get to you._

Squatting down, he searched the pockets of the ghoul’s raggedy pants. It carried six caps and a baby rattle.

-

John buried his face into the mattress, gripping the edge. One hand held his shoulder firmly, nails digging into soft flesh. The other held him at the hip pulling him up, holding him in his place. He hissed and groaned as Anthony drove into him. His mouth found the edges of John’s ear, biting and grazing, and John cried out, pleasure flushing through his core. Their bodies were slick with sweat, the heat under the blanket thick. It had taken some time for John to adjust to the concept of having sex in a room full of strangers; total privacy was a luxury few could afford in Goodneighbor. However, the partition of old appliances allowed a certain degree of discretion, and the majority of the other warehouse inhabitants were too high, too unconscious, or too busy having sex themselves to notice what was happening beyond the length of their own arms.

Teeth bit down into John’s shoulder, stifling Anthony’s moan as he shuddered and slowed in his climax. They lay panting for a moment, neither saying a word, John enjoying the feeling of hot lips brushing over his nape. Finally, Anthony moved, turning John’s shoulder to guide him onto his back, kissing him deep and trailing his way downwards. Knotting his fingers through Anthony’s hair, John rolled his hips and set a rhythm in his mouth. He bit his lower lip, breath growing ragged, heat building in the front of his thighs until he could no longer contain himself. For a moment, he saw stars and heard nothing but the blood in his ears.

When his senses returned, John remained on his back, pinching at the bridge of his nose. A headache had pulsed behind his eyes all day and no amount of Mentats or Jet had alleviated it. The orgasm helped, but he could already feel the pain creeping its way back. Eyes closed, he heard the flick of a lighter, and not soon after smoke tickled at his nose, sharp and musty.

“You got another headache?” Anthony asked through his smoke. John nodded, eyes still closed. “Want some Med-X?”

“Tried that. Think it’s stress.” He opened his eyes and allowed his hand to flop on his chest. The dim lighting felt unusually bright, and he blinked a few times to adjust.

“About your brother?” Anthony shifted around, lying on his back and snaking in under John’s arm to rest his head on his shoulder. He took a long satisfying drag as John’s fingertips settled into Anthony’s hairline. “What are you gonna do about him?” Smoke curled from his mouth and he passed it over, blowing a plume away from John.

Holding the smoke high in the air, turning it over, John replied, “Nothing. He’s not gonna blab. He’s too ashamed.” He took a puff, coughing lightly as it hit his throat.

“Do you look up to him?” Anthony lifted one leg out of their sheet, resting his foot on the rusted dryer beside them.

John’s fingers paused in Anthony’s slightly greasy hair. “What?”

“You heard. Why do you give a shit what he thinks?” He beckoned for the cigarette.

Frowning in thought, John passed it to him. “Because…” He struggled to come up with an answer. His brother was an entitled asshole, but he had moments soft enough to make John believe that he really did care. “Because I did… once. I think.” His words stammered as he recalled the document in Guy’s house and his ever-growing hostility. “I don’t feel like he’s the same person anymore. He’s my brother, but…” John trailed off, realising he didn’t know what he was trying to say. He took back the cigarette. “You wouldn’t understand,” he muttered, knowing that Anthony was an only child.

“Well you’ve got three choices.” Anthony sat up again, turning on his ass to lean back into the impromptu appliance wall, tugging the sheet up barely enough to cover himself. “One: you can clean up, go home to Diamond City, and be whatever version of you he wants you to be.” He pushed his dark hair back out of his face as he spoke. “Two: carry on as you are, keep letting him get to you, and carry your own shitty, self-imposed shame. Three: fuck him. Not literally of course. So he’s worried about what his jerk-off buddies in the Council think.” Anthony shrugged, pulling a face that told John it really wasn’t a big issue. “That’s on him, man.”

John lay thinking, pursing his lips. Anthony was right; everything came back down to Guy’s status, his reputation. His brother seemingly held few concerns for him, and that weighed heavily in John’s heart. Guy used to read to him. Taught him how to twirl a knife. Looked after him when their childhood home came under attack. Sure, he could be a bully, but wasn't every older brother? John pinched his nose again, squeezing his eyes closed to clear his thoughts. This _pillow talk_ was killing his post-orgasm high. _Now_ he needed something stronger. “Can you just… pass the Jet or something?”

-

John awoke to the sound of hurried footsteps. Raising his head from the pillow, vision blurry from sleep and chems, he saw a silhouette dash through the low light. He rubbed his eyes, a rustle as the figure settled in under a free blanket. Probably just a chem-addled drifter…

Sinking back into the pillow, his mind drifted. Stray oil lanterns grew dim as the darkness in the room swallowed them up. He seemed to linger between worlds, not quite awake but never really asleep. Loud, heavy footsteps jolted him back into the real world, echoing through the lower floors. Angry voices erupted, rigid and demanding.

_Upstairs._

_You! Back down on the floor!_

_Hurry the fuck up._

Panic spiked, sending a cold chill through his spine. John lifted his head again, chest tightening. A body scurried past him on the adjacent mattress. Goldie moved so quickly that John barely had time to register what was happening. She reached out, opening the oil lantern and blowing it out before scampering back to lie beside him. From the stairwell, the heavy blow of footsteps and metallic rattle of guns grew closer.

“Pretend you’re asleep,” she breathed, voice barely above a whisper.

As soon as John dropped his head the footsteps burst into the top floor, voices clear as day. “Alright, everybody up!” screamed a goon.

A sudden and brief barrage of submachine gun fire followed, the deep _brakka brakka_ ringing across the floor and causing otherwise sleeping drifters to erupt in in screams and swearing. Ceiling plaster broke with a crackle and a pop, accompanied by the scraping of furniture and shifting of bedding materials as Vic’s boys descended into the room. Each man bore an oil lantern that flickered ominously. The room grew smaller.

“Everybody get up!” one of them repeated in a honeyed voice, tone wavering on amusement and over-friendliness.

Behind John, Anthony shifted, hurrying to get to his feet. He could hear Finn, Marc and Laura groaning softly as they too rose from their slumbers. Goldie kept her wide eyes on John, terror struck in her usually seductive features. They both scrambled to rise, John thankful he’d put pants on earlier. He glanced at Anthony, who stood holding a sheet to maintain his modesty, eyes bloodshot and face clearly confused. In the far corner, John glimpsed the silhouette of a goon bent over and screaming in a drifter’s face, demanding that the woman hurry to stand.

“Aight, shut up, all of you!” the first man demanded. The floor fell quiet as drifters complied, a few stray voices carrying as those too high to function wondered out loud. John craned his neck to see, catching sight of a short, portly man in a grey overcoat and fedora, submachine gun raised at shoulder height. He was accompanied by a smaller man that held an oil lantern for him, and they flashed in and out of view, moving back and forth past camps and crumbling columns. Must be the ringleader. “There’s a thief among you,” he continued. “And we ain’t leavin’ until you fucks give him up.”

Whispering broke out amongst the drifters. A lump grew in John’s throat when he remembered the hurried person, dashing to find a bed. Goldie gave him another worried look, lips a thin line.

“I told you to shut up!” the leader spat. Silence followed. “Search the room. Find him,” he ordered his cronies.

Chin lowered, John scanned the room. There, by the opposite wall, shadowed behind a couple of junkies stood a skinny man in rags. Under their lanterns John could clearly see the distress in his face. He was trembling, holding his elbows, head jerking as he tried to keep his eyes low. The poor bastard stood out like an albino deathclaw. It wouldn’t be long until Vic’s boys would swoop upon him. John dropped his eyes, focussing on bare feet below.

“Well hell-o, gorgeous.”

John looked up as a goon approached, awkwardly tucking his submachine gun under the arm that held his lantern while piercing blue eyes fixed on Goldie. He clenched his jaw, straightened his shoulders. Goldie’s face broke into disgust as he slithered into her personal space, running his grimy hand through her thick, dark tresses. “Now where have you been hiding?” he cooed, pinching her chin in one hand, turning her head side to side as he examined her like a slaver considering his purchase. She leaned her torso back, trying to create space, but he only pressed in closer, casting his lecherous gaze over her.

“Leave her alone!” John spat the words without any thought. He inhaled sharply as his heart skipped. The sting of the back of Anthony’s fingers struck his bare hip, a reminder not to speak out in Goodneighbor.

The man’s head snapped in John’s direction, eyes flashing. “Smart mouth, huh?” He gave Goldie a shove and stepped over to stand in front of John.

“No! _No_!” From the far wall the skinny man pleaded for mercy.

“Found him!” a goon announced.

The declaration garnered the man’s attention, and he glanced back before returning his sights to John. “Consider yourself lucky, _Romeo_.”

A flash of a fist, and a thick gold band with a blue gem. The punch collided with John’s jaw in a sickening _crack_ , the ring catching in his lip and tearing it open like a mutfruit. White hot pain seared and John saw stars, buckling over to land on his knees. He clamped his hand over his mouth, eyes squeezing shut and stinging through salty tears. A cry escaped his lips, muffled into his hand. John was too shocked to notice the goons dragging the drifter away, or the thick silence that followed. It was a hand on his shoulder, yanking him back to land on his ass, which returned his senses.

“The fuck is wrong with you?” Finn spat.

Glaring back at him, John removed his hand. His palm was glazed in thick, sticky blood. As the adrenaline wore off, he felt his body tremble and the pain intensify. A metallic taste filled his mouth, and he tentatively licked his lower lip. It was already fat and hot.

“Cut him some slack,” Anthony told Finn, sitting beside John and tightening the sheet around his naked waist. “He just said what we’re all thinking.”

“Yeah and if his mouth keeps running like that we’re all in the shitter,” Finn said irritably. “I’m going back to sleep. Fuck you guys.” The squeaking of couch springs followed as he slumped down into it, rolled over, and adjusted his pillow.

Blood continued to trickle down John’s chin. He pressed his hand back on his lip to slow it, the open wound stinging under his touch. Laura took Marigold under her arm, sitting her down and consoling her while Marc moved to search for something in a nearby bag.

“I couldn’t just let him treat her like that,” John mumbled through his fingers at Anthony.

Anthony looked past John’s shoulder. “Hey, Marc, would you fuckin’ hurry up with that med kit?” He returned his sights to John.

“Your naked ass could help by lighting the lantern,” Marc shot back before tossing a rag and a carton of water at him.

Dousing the material in water, Anthony handed it over to John. John used it to apply pressure, watching as Anthony stretched out, reaching for the lantern at the end of the mattress and fumbling to light it. It flickered to life, illuminating the immediate area in soft, glowing orange. “John… you wanna fight back, well, we can’t stop you. But you gotta pick and choose your battles here.” Anthony scooted back in, taking the wet cloth and dabbing at John’s chin.

“I thought we looked after each other,” John said, hissing under the sting of the cool rag.

“We do… by not putting anyone else in danger.” He sounded genuinely remorseful of Goodneighbor’s informal rule.

“That’s bullshit and you know it,” John snapped. “And don’t give me your survival crap,” he added before Anthony could speak. “What good was surviving if there’s no one to survive with you?”

Anthony stopped cleaning his chin, straightening up. “And what are you gonna do, huh? Revolt? You try and fuck with these assholes and they’ll hang you and everyone associated with you. You wanna be here, you gotta lie down and take it.”

John opened his mouth to speak, but Marc cut in. “If you’re done jerking each other off can I stitch you up now?”

John glanced up at Marc. In the burn of the lantern, his short sandy hair glowed like a halo. Clasped in his hands were a small medical kit, a stimpak and a Med-X. “I didn’t know you were a doctor.”

“I’m not.”

-

Pre-dawn light filtered through the dirty window. From where John lay, he couldn’t see the sky outside, only the dull brick building adjacent to the warehouse he slept in. The top floor remained dark, save for the low flicker of lanterns. A dull ache pulsed in his jaw as the Med-X wore off. He had spent the night riding a pleasant high. Pain reduced to little more than a distant sensation, John was left with a soothing feeling of disassociation. His soul seemed to ebb and flow from his body with the pattern of his breath. Anxieties dripped away, leaving him alone to contemplate the cracks in the ceiling while the rest of the world slept.

With daylight ready to break and his body turning sober, John gave up on any hope of sleep. Tucked into the furthest corner of his brain, thoughts circled in vain attempts to come to the forefront of his mind. They grew louder with every ounce of Med-X that drained from his system, replaying recent events in rising detail and springing up a myriad of existential questions. John rolled to his side, shifting into a seated position. The others lay like statues, frozen and exhausted from chems and commotion. Beside him, Anthony slept on his stomach, lips lightly parted, dark hair an unruly mess. John brushed the loose locks from his face, watching as his skin twitched. Leaning down he planted a soft kiss on his temple before pushing himself up to stand. It took a few minutes to find his shirt and shoes – both bundled under a couch – and he slipped quietly across the room, down the stairs, and outside.

At last he saw the sky; deep cobalt dotted with fading stars, streaks of budding sunlight radiating beyond the shabby rooftops. He filled his lungs with fresh morning air and jogged down the steps. Crossing the short distance to the square out front of the Line, he pat down his trouser pockets in search of a smoke. Empty. John cursed under his breath. Approaching the closest bench in the centre of the square, he was met with the welcoming smell of cigarette smoke. A woman sat at the end of the bench, body clad in a thick fur coat, tendrils of jet black hair swirling out over her shoulders. Cigarette balancing between slender fingers, she wrote in a small notebook.

John sat down at the other end of the bench, trying to avert his gaze from her long, shapely legs. Not normally one to ask favours of strangers, there was not much left for him to lose right now. His jaw ached, the stitches in his lip itching.

“See something you like, handsome?” The woman looked up from her notebook, sultry blue eyes catching him from under her thick, blunt cut fringe.

A blush seeped into the corners of John’s cheeks. He had yet to catch a glimpse of his face in the mirror, although going off the fat throb in his lip, he held no doubts he looked like shit. “Wonderin’ if you could spare a smoke,” he replied. Pain shot through his jaw and he grimaced. He might not be able to sweet-talk his way to a cigarette, but at least he could play the part of the beaten-down man.

The woman smiled, resting her open notebook on her lap and reaching into the pocket of her plush coat. “Of course I can, honey.” With her free hand, she clicked open a scratched, silver tin and presented John with the cigarettes. He plucked one out with an appreciative smile, ignoring the stretching ache it brought with it. She passed him a lighter, and he lowered his head and cupped his hand over the flame as he ignited, sucking deeply on the stale tobacco. He dropped his hands into his lap with a satisfied exhale, looking up at the brightening sky. “You look like you needed that,” the woman said, voice as smoky as his cigarette.

Sinking back into the bench, a smile tugged at John’s sore lips. He passed the gold flip lighter back. “What gave it away? Is it my hair?” He continued grinning, brushing loose strands from his shoulder.

The woman chuckled softly. “You probably shoulda brushed it before coming out.” She gave him a wink and took quick puff of her cigarette. “So what happened? Angry husband catch you?” She kept her eyes fixed on him, free hand mindlessly settling over her notebook to cover its contents.

“ _Hah_. If only.” A pained groan cut through the town’s silence, and they both looked over to see a drifter staggering about the road in front of the Memory Den. It was difficult to tell if he was drunk, high or sick. Maybe all three. John looked away, noticing that the woman’s eyes were still turned in the drifter’s direction. “So… what’s a woman like you doing in a place like this? You here for the beer and cigarettes?”

Her eyes snapped back to him, and she cocked her head with a light _hm_. “Now that sounds like a premise for a good song,” she mused, and looked down briefly to make a note in her book.

John went to speak again, but was interrupted when a blonde woman exited the Line and approached them, clad in a sleek red dress and the stole of some long-extinct animal. The woman beside him snapped her notebook shut and flicked away her cigarette, rising to greet the other.

“I’m sure I’ll see you around,” she told him, slipping her arm into the crook of the other woman’s elbow.

“Thanks for the smoke,” he said, tilting it towards her.

“Any time, sweetheart.” She winked at him before allowing herself to be guided by the other woman. John watched them leave, their hips swaying in their strides as they headed towards the Rexford. Pieces of their conversation came out in hushed voices.

“How was your night?”

“Oh, dear, I’m too old for the oldest profession,” the blonde mused. “And yours?”

“That creep Malone came back again… lasted all of two minutes.”

As they giggled, a shrill wolf whistle erupted from nearby. John looked over to see a goon shifting his fedora and licking his lips as he watched the women walk. They made a clear point of ignoring him.


	15. Confrontation

**_2278_ **

_For those living in a Yao Guai den, the Commonwealth Shakespeare Company are returning to Diamond City for one week only. After the disappearance of notable members, they have reconvened to bring us Hamlet, spearheaded by one Rex Goodman. Isn’t that amazing, Road?_

_Indeed it is, Miles. Wait, that’s the one with the skull, right?_

_… Yes, Road. It’s the one with the skull._

_That_ is _amazing._

_Hah. You’re telling me. Now, folks, to celebrate, we’re giving away two front row tickets to their opening show. All you gotta do is come on air and give your best version of Hamlet’s famous soliloquy._

_Is it BYO skull, Miles?_

_It sure is! This is Miles and Long Road of Diamond City Radio. And Maybe, just Maybe, you’ll sit and sigh, wishing that you too had tried your hand at getting these tickets._

The soft _twang_ of guitar strings faded in, shortly followed by the croon of the Ink Spots. John lay on the couch in his living room, contemplating his Jet inhaler and bobbing his head to the slow tune. The edges of his vision blurred, the monotony of the space he occupied now dazzling under the chem’s influence. Paintings appeared lively, their oily colours saturated; the overhead bulb sparkled and flared. Even the walls, a lacklustre patchwork of browns and metals, glittered vibrantly. His skin prickled against the gentle itching of red couch fibres under every slow and wispy movement he made. Eyelids heavy, he allowed his mind to blank, enjoying the effects of the acrid aerosol in his hands, the slow tick of time, and the pleasant melody of _Maybe_.

A clicking of the door lock cut through the tune and John’s eyes snapped open. He scrambled, rolling over to hide the chem in his pocket while the world swayed and tilted. As the door opened, firm footsteps following, John rolled further, craning his neck to see beyond the arm of the couch.

Guy closed the door behind him, brows furrowing in borderline disapproval as he looked around the living area. “Turn that down would you?”

Of all the people to kill his high. John scoffed, propping himself up by his elbows. Just beyond his brother’s shoulder, a painting of a lighthouse hung from the wall. He fixed his gaze on it to steady his vision, the gull contained within appearing as if it would burst forth from the image. The painting’s placement was too convenient, allowing John to appear as if he were in fact looking at his brother. “Don’t tell me what to do; you don’t even live here anymore.” He spoke with intent, concentrating on every sound and each tongue flick in an effort to avoid the Jet slur.

Guy strode across the room, casting a side eye over John as he approached the radio. Miles’ jovial voice streamed through, Road laughing along; _and that was the last time I tried raw mirelurk omelette…_ “What happened to your face?” Guy queried, a touch of suspicion in his voice as he turned down the volume. “Ma said you were in a fight.”

John unconsciously raised his fingertips to his lip. The sutures had been removed a few days prior, and the bruising was now reduced to mottled brown and green. “Some caravaner at the Dugout thought I was someone else.” He shrugged, lips turning downwards as if defeated and upset by the _incident_. Their parents had eaten up the story like a snack cake; it was no secret many of the caravan workers liked to let loose after hours. Drunken fights and rabblerousing at the Dugout were not unheard of. “’Sup anyway?”

Guy lifted his double-breasted jacket, reaching for the inner pocket to reveal a handful of pamphlets and folded papers. John immediately recognised them as electoral leaflets. Mayor Roberts had three candidates to contend with in the upcoming election, none of which had anything more to offer than cookie-cutter promises of prosperity and the occasional anti-nonhuman filler. “Ma wanted some info on candidates. Not sure why, she’s only going to vote for Roberts anyway. Is she here?” He tapped the papers against his palm, small eyes setting on John.

John shook his head, deciding it was time to sit up lest he attract additional unwanted questioning. “Out,” he replied curtly, shifting his weight and sliding his legs from the couch. His vision tilted again, the living room a brief and vibrant blur.

“Right, well, these are for her when she gets back.” Guy dropped the brochures onto the coffee table. They fanned out slowly, black inks warping over shimmering cream paper. “You don’t look so good, John. I’m not just talking about your face either.”

John could feel his brother watching him, but he kept his focus on the papers. “I’m fine,” he replied flippantly. “You just woke me from a nap.” Knowing how to best divert the conversation, he slid a leaflet in closer. “Speaking of ugly mugs,” John began, holding up a page with _A vote for Cole is a vote for Confidence!_ sprawled across it in bold serif lettering. A balding man in round spectacles smiled back from the paper in black and white. “When do we get to see you on one of these?”

Guy began rebuttoning his coat, still studying him closely. “Roberts is going to win, as he always does. Do you know why?”

“Because he doesn’t look like this guy?” John fluttered Cole’s brochure in the air, relieved that the diversion worked. Times like these, Guy’s self-absorbance paid off. He flicked it back onto the table and sank back into the couch, spreading his arms out along the back and resting his ankle over his knee.

“Roberts is familiar. The economy is stable. Trade negotiations with Quincy are _en route_.” Guy sniggered at his own pun, his entire body quivering. John humoured his brother with a light snort, trying hard not to roll his eyes. “And until his term limit is up, the people are going to stick with what they know. They like that kind of security.”

John raised his brows, sceptical of his motives. “What? You gonna wait for the city to destabilise or something?” he asked with a light flick of the wrist.

“My time will come, John,” Guy affirmed, ignoring the comment and smoothing down his jacket. Then he paused, eyes still boring into John. “You really don’t look well. You’re slurring.”

Guy’s words made John’s spine run cold. The light danced over the smooth buttons of his brother’s patched tan suit. The material itself almost glowed, and every grey streak in his hair shone sharply in the diffuse light. Guy’s beady eyes were the only things that didn’t shine in saturated brilliance; they remained small and dark, recessed into his face. John’s gut knotted. “I just told you, I’m fine.”

 

“No. You’re not.” Guy crossed the small space to stand before John, grabbing him by the jaw and tilting his head upwards to examine him suspiciously. “What are you on?”

John slapped his hands away, scrabbling to the other corner of the couch in a bid for space. “What the fuck, man? Don’t touch me.”

“Spill it, John. Your eyes are bloodshot, but you don’t smell like booze. Are you _high_?”

“I told you. I just woke up. I don’t remember you ever looking like Sleeping Beauty when you get up.” Recalling his run-in with Valentine, John tried to keep his cool, but a lump had already formed in his throat and he could feel his words stammering. He was not going to mention the synth’s tip-off; no point dragging an innocent bystander into it.

“Your friend _died_ because of chems,” Guy reminded him bitterly.

“Whoa.” John’s heart sputtered and he rose from the couch to better face his brother. The world was still a blur of sparkling lights and vivid colours, but the boil of anger in his gut was enough to focus him.  He knew the comment was made to hurt. This was a new low, even for Guy. “Don’t you fucking talk about him again.”

Guy scanned him up and down, lips tight and brows lightly furrowed. It was clear he’d made up his mind. “I knew I’d catch you in the act one day. What is it, John? Jet? Med-X?” He made a grab for his arms, intent on finding track marks.

John pushed Guy away. “Fuck off. You the fun police now?”

“You better keep your filthy habit quiet.” Guy moved in closer, jabbing him in the shoulder with a pudgy finger, eyes flashing. “I will not have you soil my reputation.” He paused, continuing to eye John with a hostile expression. “Nor will I have my brother live a life of degeneracy.”

The words hit hard, and John recalled the conversation with Anthony. The anger subsided, giving way to a strange sense of calm. He narrowed his eyes, leaning in closer and smirking right into his brother’s face. “Why? Afraid of what your friends will think? Oh that’s right.” He relaxed back. “You got no friends.”

“You disappoint me.” Guy leaned back in, sniffing John loudly. “Clean up before ma sees you… unless you want to disappoint her too.” He backed out of the small space between the coffee table and the couch and strode towards the door.

“Hey, Guy?” John asked, turning around and crossing his arms smugly. “You know the best bit?”

“What?” Guy snapped, eyes reduced to fuzzy narrow slits. His hand rest upon the doorhandle, ready to leave.

“Unless you want to go around boasting about your little brother’s _interests_ , there ain’t nothing you can do.”

Guy stared him down for an elongated moment and left without a word, slamming the door behind him. John felt his heart sink in relief, the lump in his throat dissolving. At most, Guy would tell their parents. What else could he do without risking his beloved reputation? Still, the ugly head of guilt began peering through the cracks in John’s gut. He’d finally found a niche. It might not have been the most acceptable, but it was his, and he wasn’t harming anybody. Nor was not looking to disappoint. He dropped back into the couch, fishing for the Jet in his pocket.

-

Diamond City was closing up for the night, the markets floodlit by Power Noodles. The air was cold and damp, light rain sprinkling from the sky, droplets flashing like diamonds under the lighting. John pulled down the roller shutter to the shopfront, the mechanism jamming at the half-way point. A regular occurrence, he jiggled it until the ratchet freed and pulled it the rest of the way. Happy with the lock, he headed inside where he was greeted by his parents at the dining table. The smell of hot dinner filled the room. Gamey, probably radstag. He noticed the table was empty, bar the cracked vase in the centre.

“You want me to set the table?” he called, taking a Nuka Cola from the counter.

“Sit down, John,” his father asked, voice solemn.

John cracked open the bottle, pocketing the cap and looking at his parents in confusion. Martha’s eyes were low as she fiddled with a dishcloth. “Sure…” he said, hesitantly taking a seat. Suddenly he didn’t feel so thirsty and he set the cola down without taking a drink.

“We found these under your mattress.” Pat produced an empty Mentats tin and a Jet inhaler from his pocket, placing them on the table.

 _Guy_ , he thought bitterly. His palms went tacky and he felt like a cornered doe. “You’re going through my things now…?”

“Your brother…” his mother started before pausing, trying to find her words. She barely looked at him. “We know you boys don’t always get along. We had to make sure.”

“Do you care to explain?” his father pressed, tone incensed.

John hesitated. There was no point in trying to deny the chems. His parents would never buy a story that Guy planted them; he was the proverbial golden child after all. The best he could do was keep calm and hope his father would contain his anger. He glanced at his mother; her face was expressionless, like she had forced her mind elsewhere to avoid facing reality. “So I tried a few things,” he said, holding a shrug. “There’s not much to do in Diamond City.”

“Is this what you do when you disappear?” His mother finally looked at him. The disappointment behind her eyes cut his abdomen open, leaving his insides to spill outwards. He’d never seen her so let down before.

“What? No,” John replied, disheartened. “No, ma… that’s because I’m kinda seeing someone.” While he would admit that much, there was no way he would confess to running off to Goodneighbor. Such an admission would only serve to upset his parents further.

His mother opened and closed her mouth, while his father kept stern eyes upon him. She must have been wondering why he’d never mentioned a relationship. Why he’d never brought someone home to meet them. John briefly wondered if he’d dug himself in deeper. “Are they… _encouraging_ this?” she asked hesitantly.

John rubbed his palms together, they were hot and sticky. He chose his words carefully. “Look, it’s not really a big deal. I’m careful. I don’t use often.”

Patrick slammed his hand down with a _thud_ that made the items rattle and John and Martha both jump in their seats. “It _is_ a big deal, John. Do you have any idea what could happen to you? And what about your brother? You know what Diamond City is like.”

John’s mouth fell agape at the mention of Guy. The void in his gut was filled with boiling water. “Hang on…” he fumbled for his words. “Guy? You’re worried about _Guy_?!”

Martha reached out and took his hand. “John, honey…”

His father interjected, face reddening. “What a stupid thing to say. Of course we’re concerned about you, but you also need to understand that your actions affect others.”

“What if you overdose? Or… something happens to you?” his mother said, squeezing his hand.

He knew she was referring to Liam. It was a freak accident. It could have happened to anyone, high or not. Annoyed, he pulled his hand away and focussed his attention on his father. “I’m an adult. I can make my own decisions.”

“Adult or not, so long as you’re under this roof you live by our rules,” Pat said firmly. “There will be no more of… _this_ if you wish to remain.” He motioned to the inhaler and the tin with disgust. “Now unless you wish to share anything else, I want you to eat and go to bed.”

-

Solomon peered out of his door with bloodshot eyes. His face lit up on recognising John and he was quick to usher him in. “Join the party!” he slurred, wrapping his arm around John’s shoulder.

A small group of people lay throughout, spread amongst the couch, the cushions, the floor. Drug paraphernalia and cartons of Sugar Bombs decorated the spaces in between. The muffled sound of sex intermingled with the streaming of _Butcher Pete_ , and John felt immediately at home. Frustrated by the evening’s confrontation, he’d waited for his parents to turn in for the night before scrounging together his caps and slipping out. While he’d considered paying his brother a visit, doing so would merely exasperate the tension. What would John say anyway? Lying in bed, he’d already played the conversation out in his mind. _It’s for your own good, little brother_ , Guy would say to keep the weight on John. Besides, confronting him would only prove he was upset. John would not give him that satisfaction. But he could find his own.

Turning to Solomon with a gratified smile, John asked, “You got anything strong?”

Solomon let go of him and scratched at his chin in thought. The dealer hadn’t shaved in some time and a coarse blonde beard was gradually overcoming his jawline. “Like… Buffout strong? Or I got some Psycho in the back… just don’t let the guards see you strung out on that. You gotta be specific man…”

“I’m looking for an escape.”

It was as if a lightbulb had clicked on inside Solomon. His eyes lit up and he tapped his nose in understanding. “I got a prescription…  if you got the caps.”

With a nod, John fished the fat pouch of caps from his pocket. Solomon opened it and studied its contents carefully, estimating the number within. Apparently satisfied, he tugged the drawstrings closed. “It’s worth a lot more than this man, but I’m feeling, like… generous tonight.” He waved his hand outwards to the living room. “Sit! Make yourself at home. I think there’s some samples left,” he said as he began to wander away, body swaying lightly.

Following Solomon’s invitation, John made himself comfortable on a series of free cushions by the wall. A woman lay beside him, snoring softly, arms decorated in bruises and angry red lesions. He looked away; he’d seen worse addicts in Goodneighbor. At least she had a safe roof over head, even just for the night. Settling back, he took in the atmosphere. A musty smell of people, dried spirits, and cigarettes lingered in the air. The people having sex reached their climax – they were out of sight, perhaps in the other room, but certainly not out of earshot. This was a side of Diamond City he had never seen before, for the first time he felt like he had a place within the Green Jewel. He fumbled for cigarettes; nicotine would take the edge off.

It wasn’t long before Solomon returned, offering John a double-barrelled syringe encased in tarnished metal. Luminous fluid swirled within the barrels; one side golden yellow, the other a bright tangerine. “If this ain’t the escape you’re looking for, then my name ain’t Solomon.”

John turned the chem around in his hands, the metal and glass cool in his palms. Daddy-O. He remembered Anthony talking about hearing colours. Rare, and contraband in Diamond City, but supposedly one hell of a trip. “Thanks, man.” He smiled and snuffed out the cigarette in a nearby ashtray.

“Enjoy it in good health, but like, remember: none of it is real.” Solomon gave a mock salute before wandering away to leave John to his devices.

Without further thought of what he was about to put into his body, John tugged off his belt and looped it around his arm, holding the trailing end between his teeth. Butterflies swirled in his stomach in nervous anticipation, and he took a moment to focus on a crack in the floor as he cleared his mind. No point going in with a chest full of baggage and a head full of whirling thoughts. John aimed for a faded Med-X pinprick, and with a prickle from the hypodermic, blood swirled through into both barrels. Releasing the tourniquet and depressing the plunger, his circulation ran cold. The edges of his vision blurred as shades of lurid vermilion gradually disappeared into his vein.

Euphoria gradually warmed in John’s core and he began to drift apart; it felt as though the flesh was slowly straying from his bones. He scanned for the needle cap but the Daddy-O was already holding him by the elbows, leading him out of his body and through the fabric of reality. He hadn’t realised how fast the trip would come on. Better to relax and go with it than to fight it. A sharp buzzing started deep in his ears, creeping throughout him like the roots of a tree. Every cell vibrated to a tune written solely for him while the walls – now iridescent – began pulsing and undulating. Flesh continued drifting away, leaving him weightless. Breathless. The room breathed for him, walls gradually moving in and out like bellows.

Time slowed to a trickle, and the mosaic of wood, steel and the sky-blue draping on the walls began warping and blending into vortices. New colours formed from within their eyes and arms, each more brilliant than the last, bleeding out into the atmosphere like milk in water. John’s body continued to be lovingly torn apart from the outside in, his core burning like the sun. The buzzing morphed into an ethereal sing-song that beckoned his soul. Like a tumbleweed, his mind rolled through infinite space, a surreal universe of phosphorescent fractals and glittering spots of light. At last he came to a stop at the feet of an entity. She was formless yet radiant, burning white-hot, the occasional tendril unfurling to greet him with a shower of stardust the colour of Med-X. John stared upon her in awe, feeling the prickling heat of energy and tasting her alien song. He lingered for eternity, nestled in her sanctum as the pieces of his body remained on Solomon’s cushions.

**Author's Note:**

> I'd like to give a massive thanks to my awesome beta [General Lee](http://archiveofourown.org/users/General_Lee/pseuds/General_Lee) who came on board after Chapter 4. Thanks for all the help and input, the chats, and for keeping me on track. I would be most lost otherwise.


End file.
